Our Echoes Roll from Soul to Soul
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: A collection of S7-related one-shots and tags. #15: Good Clown, Bad Clown: Tag to "Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie". Dean's feeling guilty, and finds a way to make it up to Sam.
1. The Devil's Workshop

**Author's Note: **_Well? _What did you think of _Meet the New Boss_? Did anyone else think Death was at his very awesomest?

I was in two minds about a tag to _Meet the New Boss_ – but it was the first episode of the season, I couldn't let it go without one! So… here it is. Enjoy!

This series is going to work like _Never the End_… I'll put all S7 tags in here. There'll be one for most episodes (I hope!) but not necessarily for every episode. And I really hope you have fun with all the tags!

Thanks, as always, to Cheryl, without whom there would be a lot less fanfic from me. ;-)

**Disclaimer: **Sure, I own the boys. I also have a spaceship parked in my backyard and I own a small planetoid orbiting just beyond Pluto.

**Summary:** Dean went to the supply closet to find a jar of blood and no little brother. Where did Sam go?

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><p><strong>The Devil's Workshop<strong>

Dean's going to be mad.

Isn't he?

Is he? I don't know. _I don't_ _know_. I thought I had a handle on this – enough of one to tell the hallucinations from the reality, at least – but it turns out I don't. I don't know if this is real, I don't know _anything_.

Dean _was _mad. That was how I was so sure it was Dean. If Dean had found out I lied about having hallucinations and hadn't had something to say about that –

Dean was mad, and I'm sorry, but, really, what was I supposed to do? I _heard _him talking to Bobby. I heard what he said about needing to believe I was all right. Was I really supposed to walk into that shed and destroy the last bit of hope my brother had?

It's not like Dean can do anything to help me. This is beyond whiskey-and-Impala therapy and we both know it. Dean might think I'm stupidly optimistic about everything, but I'm not. I'm enough of a realist to admit that what's wrong with my head can probably never be fixed.

It's not a big deal, considering the alternative.

It _is _hard, though. There's a part of my mind – the logical part, the part that's trying to stay in control – that knows this is real – _this_, the world, the stars, the Impala, _Dean_. But logic can't get you very far when your own brain is playing tricks on you.

Because – what if I'm wrong? What if that _logical_ part of my mind is just trying to delude me? What if Lucifer was telling the truth and this is all just something he made up to torture me more? It would be right up there with some of the other things he's done, with all the times he made me believe Dean had come for me and –

Not thinking about that. _Not thinking about that._

It was more agonizing than anything else he did. Dean would come in and help me off the rack, as gentle as he used to be when I was four, as gentle as he _still_ is whenever I'm hurt. I would sink into his arms, feeling as warm and protected as only my big brother could make me feel.

And then Dean would turn into Lucifer – or if Lucifer was feeling particularly vindictive, he'd just stay Dean – and start carving me up.

Right. Brilliant job _not thinking about that_, moron.

I _wanted_ to tell Dean about the hallucinations. That was the problem. From the second the wall broke, I wanted to go to Dean the way I used to with my scraped knees, go to him and tell him everything and let him fix it. I still want to go to Dean –

But Dean can't fix this.

And Dean has more important things to do right now. He's in the lab with Bobby, and I hope they found the jar of blood I left on the floor – thankfully I managed to put it down before it could fall and smash.

It's the least I can do, get out of the way so Dean can deal with the pressing problems instead of worrying about me.

_Sammy…_

Not that… Not that, not here, not _now_, not when it's supposed to be _over_!

_Why are you running, Sammy? Don't you know you can't run in the Cage?_

I'm stumbling through empty corridors trying to get away from Lucifer – from his face, from his _voice_, from his hateful words. It's all I can do.

I can't go back and help Dean and Bobby. I'm too much of a wreck; I'd be more of a hindrance than anything. If it doesn't work, if Cas doesn't pull himself together and put the souls back, then nothing's going to matter anyway. It won't matter if this is real or not, if I'm still in the Cage or not – either way, I'm screwed.

And if – _if_, I can't, I daren't let myself hope – if this _is _real, if I'm _not _in the Cage, and if Cas _does _manage to put the souls and the Leviathans back in Purgatory, Dean will find me.

Please let this be real.

_Real, Sammy?_ The voice is in my head, echoing off the walls, around me, _in _me, and I must be going crazy. _I told you. The only thing that's real is Hell. You're there._

"You're lying!" I say. Even to my own ears, my voice sounds unconvincing. "I'm not in the Cage."

_Yes, you are._

"Dean got me out."

_Please. Why would Dean waste his time trying to get you out of Hell? He's happy with the way things are. He doesn't need you back messing things up._

"You're lying."

_Don't believe me? Ask Michael. He's a big brother too._

I want Dean. I know it makes me sound like a child but I want Dean, I want him _now_. I want him to tell me it's OK and he's got my back and –

_Whiny today, aren't we, Sammy?_

"Shut up!"

I don't even know where I am anymore. It's probably still the lab – I don't remember having left it – but I'm in a different part of it now, what looks like some kind of underground tunnel.

Great. With my luck, this is probably going to be the place they dump their hazardous waste. I'll probably leave here with a glowing green tail.

_You're never leaving here, Sammy. That's the point._

"Go away," I mutter, turning around, trying to remember which way I came.

_Fine. Your funeral._

I pause. It's dangerous to listen to Lucifer… But one thing I've learnt over the many, _many _years I spent being tortured by him is that it can be even more dangerous not to listen to Lucifer.

"What are you talking about?"

_That's the nature of the illusion, little Sammy. If you leave this building, it ends._

"You mean if I leave this building you'll go away?"

_How adorable. The child still wants to believe that he's with his big brother. Don't be stupid, Sam. If you leave this building, I'll still be here. Everything else will go away. The world, your midget brother, that beaver in the baseball hat, everything. You step out of this building and it's midnight for Cinderella._

"You're _lying_."

_Like I said, Sammy, your funeral._

I feel something – rushing, movement – it makes the building shake, makes the ground shake, and I know Dean and Bobby have managed to get the door open and put the souls back.

Good. It's done. Dean's going to come for me.

_Even if this were real, Sammy, why would Dean come for you? Do you really think he needs to take care of _you _on top of everything else?_

"Get out of my head."

_I'm not in your head, you ridiculous monkey. I'm right in front of you._

And, oh _God_, he _is _right in front of me. This isn't real – can't be real.

"_Hello, Sam._"

It's not in my head anymore. He's here and he's talking.

Please no. Please –

There's another shake, something that makes the ground vibrate under my feet and bits of plaster fall from the ceiling. Something's wrong.

Something's _very _wrong.

We might all be dead for real this time. One way or another.

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><p>The next one will probably be a continuation of this, with our favourite big brother making his series debut.<p>

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!

Also, good luck for the second episode! I have to say, the promo looks _good_.


	2. All I Know

**Author's Note:** I was going to write a Part II to the last tag, but considering that the show already gave us hallucinating Sam being choked by an awesomely creepy Lucifer… How much better can it get?

So, instead, there's this. (And if I can get the Muses working hard enough, there may be another one before Friday.)

And one last thing I have to say before starting the fic: We're going to get hospital Sammy! _Years_ of waiting and wanting and fanfic and we're _finally_ going to get hospital Sammy! Yay!

OK. Calm now.

Thanks to Klutzygirl33, criminally charmed, twomoms, stelladelnordxd, Shakari, Queen Bee, Jane88, Katy M VT, cookjar, BerrySPNFMA, Eavis, SandyDee84, BranchSuper, TinTin11, scootersmom, sammynanci, Likaella, CeCe Away, Twinchester Angel, jafreckleslover, Scribble2Much, OutTonightAndForever, godsdaughter77 and Scifidiva for the reviews.

Thanks to Cheryl, for reading and listening!

**Disclaimer:** Normally this is where I say, "If the boys were mine, we'd have had hospital Sammy by now."

… Unfortunately, still not mine.

**Summary:** Tag to 7.02, _Hello, Cruel World_. After what happened in the warehouse, Dean needs to patch up more than just Sam's hand.

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><p><strong>All I Know<strong>

I thought, when Sam died in my arms, kneeling the mud at Cold Oak, that that was the very worst I'd feel in my life. Then Stull Cemetery happened, and I figured _that _was a new low even for me. But what I'm feeling right now? Whole different kind of fear.

I remember what it was like, coming back from Hell. I remember the sight of steak turning my stomach. I remember the nightmares. I remember… way too much.

And what Sam went through? I can't even begin to imagine it. Sam's hurting, and I don't what to do. I don't know who I can fight, what I can kill, how the hell I can even _try_ to make it better. This _thing_, Sam being tortured right in front of me while I just stand by and _watch_, is like some evil freak took my ten worst nightmares and decided to make them all come true at the same time.

It had better not be _you_, Gabriel.

I've just managed to talk him down. I don't know how long it'll last, but for now Sam's quiet, and he's listening to me, and he seems to believe me. I'm taking my breaks however I can get them.

I grab his arm and lead him out to the Impala. The car he must've driven on his way here is parked right by it. I don't look at it; I'm trying not to think about Sam driving while Lucifer was messing with his head. I walk Sam past it and put him in my baby's passenger seat while I go for the first aid kit. (I can trust my baby. She's not some random truck or sports car that might throw him onto the road and run him over. She understands Sammy, knows she needs to be careful with him sometimes.)

I go back and crouch in front of Sam. "Let me see your hand." Sam looks at me doubtfully. "C'mon, Sammy," I say gently. "I think you busted your stitches back there. We need this to heal quickly, right? You're going to have to back me up on hunts as soon as your head's back where it should be."

"Oh." Sam puts his hand in mine, as trustful as though I didn't just hurt it more, as though I didn't encourage him to make it bleed. "I thought he was you."

"I know, Sammy."

"I wouldn't have gone with him if I hadn't."

"I know, Sammy," I reassure him, unwrapping the bandage. "It's OK. Just don't do it again. You scared the crap out of me." I pause. "So what'd he say to you?" I don't miss the way his hand stiffens in mine. "Sammy?"

"What do you mean?"

"Drive here from Bobby's, he must have talked, right? The fake me? What did he say?"

"He thought I was crazy. Like Martin."

"Uh huh." I mop up the blood, trying not to cringe at the thought of Sam doing that to himself. "What else?"

"He wanted to get me professional help."

"Why would we do that?" I ask, inspecting the stitches. "So you can have an incident in front of the doctor and they can lock you up?"

Sam flinches.

I look up in time to see a flare of hurt in his eyes, and I know that whatever that son of a bitch said to him, it stung. Enough that now he's withdrawing his hand, blushing and mumbling.

"_Hey._" I tighten my hold as much as I can without hurting him. "You know that wasn't me. That was just some stupid vision conjured up by your brain –"

Which means that Sam's brain thinks that's the way I feel.

_Crap._

"OK," I say. "OK, we can deal with this. Sam, listen to me. _Look at me._" Sam does, reluctantly. "Now, I want you to repeat that entire conversation, word for word – and don't try to tell me you don't remember it. Freak brain of yours remembers everything. Except, apparently, that I would never say something that stupid." Sam's quiet, and I squeeze his hand a tiny bit harder. "Sam. _Tell me._"

"Bobby's going to be waiting for us –"

"Bobby won't mind if we're five minutes late. If the Leviathans are already here, a couple of minutes here or there won't make too much of a difference. Not like we have another eclipse to catch. Quit stalling, Sammy. Talk."

Sam leans forward, ducking his head. I let him. If he feels more comfortable talking to my jacket than to my face, it's fine, so long as he _talks_.

"Sammy?"

"He came home," Sam mumbles. "To Bobby's. I thought he was you. He said the Leviathans were here – he'd tracked them here. He needed me to back him up."

"OK. What then?"

"He asked me how I was… in the head."

"What did you say?"

"Said I was OK… Not seeing anything. I didn't – I didn't know he wasn't real, Dean!"

"Hey, calm down. I know you didn't." I start wrapping a fresh gauze bandage around Sam's hand. "And then he said you were going crazy?"

"He made it worse. He kept saying there was no way I could deal with it and I was going to go crazy – and I told him I was doing the best I could, and I _was_, and –"

"Sam!" I shake him lightly before he can work himself up. "It's OK." I squeeze the back of his neck. "See, that, right there, that should've told you he wasn't me." Sam looks up. "I know you always do your best, Sam. Sometimes things haven't gone right, and we've both made mistakes, but you never give up. You keep fighting. I know that. That's one of the things I admire about you."

"But, Dean –"

"I was there, remember? I was there when you fought Lucifer in Stull Cemetery. I was there when you beat him, and beat Michael, and saved us all. Now you listen to me. You're going to beat him again."

"This is different."

"Of course it's different, Sam. It wouldn't be our screwed-up lives if it weren't different. But you'll find a way to beat this – beat _him_. Hey, _look at me_. There are two Archangels in a Cage in Hell because of _you_."

"You helped me then."

"And what, you think I'm not going to help you now? Yeah, of course you do, or your head wouldn't be coming up with stupid crap like me asking you to get professional help."

"Dean –"

"Shut up, Sam. I'm not done making my speech here. You need help. I'm not denying that. But not from some smartass with a medical degree. There are going to be times when you can't believe in yourself, but I believe in you, and that's going to be enough for both of us. You can do that, right? You can believe in your big brother?"

Sam nods, leaning in to rest his head on my shoulder. I let him – just for a moment, and _only_ because he needs it, the emo girl.

Then I pat his shoulder. "OK, Samantha. Chick-flick's over. Time to go. You ready?"

"Yeah."

"Fine." I draw back. "And next time you start seeing things or you think I'm saying stupid crap to you, you know what to do, right?"

Sam looks at his bandaged hand, flexing it gently. I roll my eyes.

"_No_, moron. You come to me. Got that? I see you hurting yourself, I'm going to be really, _seriously_ pissed off and you are _not _going to be able to puppy-dog your way out of an ass-kicking. You come to me and you let me take care of it."

Sam looks at me, and his tiny smile is worth all the oestrogen in the air. "Yes, Dean."

"That's my boy."

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	3. Nobody's Perfect

**Author's Note: **I had a couple of hours to spare, the Muses were cooperative, Cheryl (as always) managed to make time to help… So here's that second tag. I hope you like it!

Thanks to Klutzygirl33, Shakari, criminally charmed, stelladelnordxd, cold kagome, cookjar, fledglingfeathers, doyleshuny, Eavis, Jane88, Likaella, twomom, OutTonightAndForever, BerrySPNFMA, Katy M VT, BranchSuper, casammy, SPN Mum, Emmers224, SandyDee84, scootersmom, godsdaughter77, jensengirl4eva, battle at arizona and CeCe Away for the reviews!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything.

**Summary:** Tag to 7.02. In the ambulance on the way to Sioux Falls General, what's Sam thinking?

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><p><strong>Nobody's Perfect<strong>

It's _Lucifer_.

He's standing in a corner of the ambulance, smiling and nodding, and no matter how hard I shake my head, how much I look away, how firmly I tell myself that he isn't real, every time I look back he's still there.

I vaguely remember Dean's hands on my head as he told me to hang on. I remember his voice. That was the only thing holding me, _anchoring _me, because the Leviathan's knock to my head had jolted everything askew and it felt like I was looking at the world, _experiencing _the world, through a fine mist.

It still feels like that. I'm in an ambulance. My head feels like it's about to explode. Dean is right next to me and he's begging – _pleading _with me. And Lucifer's right in front of me and he's not pleading. He's standing there with that sneer I know like I know my own face – or Dean's.

I can't tell which of them is real.

I can't tell what Dean's saying, although Lucifer's voice is coming through loud and clear. "I'm always going to be here," and, "When Dean gives up and leaves you in a psych ward, I'm going to be your roommate again," and, "Never going to get rid of me, Sammy, never ever ever."

I turn to Dean in desperation. Dean's talking, and it looks like he's talking to me, but I can't tell. I can't –

I reach for him. Someone pushes my hand back, something black blurs across my vision.

I hear Dean's voice again. He sounds angry and I can't hold back the whimper, although I know he's never going to let me live it down. I'm trying to deal with it, I'm trying to tell between what's real and what isn't, I'm _trying_ and –

And there's a hand on my wrist, solid and reassuring. Dean's grip is strong. His voice is suddenly _much_ closer to my ear, and this time I can almost make out words.

I look at Dean, blinking through the pain in my skull. He's smiling, I can tell now that he's closer, but it's not a happy smile. It's the smile I half-remember from Cold Oak, the smile from when I was seven and fell off the jungle gym and cracked my head. It's the smile that says, "I am _not _going to lose you, so let me just talk like everything's OK and when I finish this will turn out to not be happening."

"Dean," I mumble, and his smile widens, like I'm playing along. "_Dean._"

"I'm here."

"Worth it," I tell him, just in case I never get to speak to him again.

"Sammy, what are you –"

"Me." It hurts to get words out, but I have to say this while I'm still lucid. "Head injuries… Crazy person… Don't really… mix."

"Shut up, Sam."

"If I die… all worth it… Jumping –"

"Sam –"

"_This_ –"

"Sam, if you –"

"You're safe… All I wanted."

"_Sam!_" Dean snaps. "Shut up. You do not get to make the goodbye speech. Nothing's going to happen to you. Not dying, not going crazy. You're going to be fine. You hear me? You're going to be a pain in my ass tomorrow morning, and every day after that, and when we go we're going together." Dean must've had his gurney rolled closer, because he's muttering all this an inch from my face. "You hearing me, Samantha?"

"Sorry… Dean…"

The world fades out.

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><p>It fades back in to chaos and people and light that's so bright it's painful. They're saying something. Everyone's talking at once and I can't tell what's going on.<p>

I have a moment of fear – wasn't one of the doctors a Leviathan? What if one of _these_ people is a Leviathan? Where's Dean?

I look around. Dean's not there, and the fear morphs into blind panic. _What if it ate Dean?_ What am I going to do if –

I can't. I _can't_ think that way. Dean's OK, he has to be OK. He's a hunter, a good one, and he's not busy spilling his marbles all over the floor. No way a Leviathan got the drop on him. He's probably just getting his leg casted. As soon as it's done he'll be here.

I sigh, letting myself fade into the beckoning darkness again.

He'll be here.

* * *

><p>When I wake up again, Dean's there. He's sitting by my bed; I think he's in a wheelchair, but from the position I'm in, I can't really see.<p>

I can't see much, actually. There's a stand by the bed with the usual clutter of medical equipment, a table with a jug, a bowl of flowers and a book someone's left lying around, and a plastic chair pushed back against the wall.

I try to ask Dean what's going on, but what comes out is a garbled non-word that not even he can understand. He hears it, and he smiles at me and pats my hand.

"Attaboy, Sammy. I knew you'd be OK. You ready to blow this joint now?" Dean pauses and then rolls his eyes. "Oh, wait, I forgot. You need_ rest_ because you finally found something hard enough to crack your thick skull. Bad enough when you were just crazy. Now you're crazy _and_ concussed."

_Not real._ My mind, the rational part of it, snaps into action. _Ignore him, Sammy. He isn't real._

"Of course I'm real, Sammy." Dean leans forward. "I'm your brother."

_No, he isn't._

"Yes, I am."

_No._

"Yes."

Wait a minute – I'm pretty sure my half of the conversation is going in inside my head. So how is Dean _responding_ to it?

"I'm your brother," Dean says, nudging my arm. "I know you. I know what you're thinking." He squeezes my hand. I pull it away. "_Sam._" Dean grabs my wrist. "Don't be ridiculous. I know you're seeing triple, but I need you to hold it together. We're in a hospital. Anyone here realizes you're crazy and they'll put you in the special ward for dangerous patients."

_Dangerous patients?_

"Have you seen the size of you?" Dean demands. "You'll be lucky if they don't just shoot a little extra morphine into your IV. So shut up and do as I tell you." He pauses, eyes going to the door. "Or I might just give you that extra shot of morphine myself. It would be a kindness, huh, Sam? Like putting a dog to sleep… Well, not really. Like shooting a mad dog."

_This can't be Dean._

"Like Gregory Peck," Dean goes on, and it's like he's seeing happy visions of it in his head. "Remember that movie, Sam? It would be quick – just one shot." He leans forward, finger brushing my temple. "Right there. Double tap to the brain. You wouldn't feel a thing."

"Dean," I manage to whisper. "_Please._"

"But that would be messy. I don't have a gun on me right now, anyway. So maybe…" Strong fingers are at my throat. "Maybe we'll just do this quick and dirty. Don't fight it, Sam. It'll be over soon." Dean's pressing down. Black spots are dancing across my vision.

"Dean, _please_."

Dean laughs. "Goodbye, Sam."

That's the last thing I know.

* * *

><p>I wake up again. I keep my eyes shut this time, because now I'm dead, which means it's over, which means I'm back in the <em>Cage<em>, which means –

"Sammy! Come on, don't do this to me." The voice next to my ear is harsh. "Come _on_. You don't get to check out, not yet. I'm not – come _on_, Sam, stay with me. You die and I'm going to eat my gun, I swear. I am _not_ doing this without you, Sam."

That doesn't sound like Lucifer or Michael.

I tilt my head towards the sound.

"That's my boy," Dean urges. "Come on, open your eyes. I know you're awake, Sam. Look at me. Hey, I'll even bring you breakfast in bed again. Who's going to give you a better deal than that?"

It's difficult, and it makes my head hurt, but I finally manage to open my eyes a tiny crack. Dean's face, floating blurrily above me, breaks into a wide, relieved grin.

"_Sammy._"

I don't know what to do. Is this Dean? Is this not Dean? Is this a Dean who's going to think I need to be put down like a rabid animal? I try to ask him what he wants. My voice won't work.

"Shut up," Dean says, leaning in closer. "He was here, wasn't he? Came here and freaked you out." One hand finds my head, but unlike the last Dean, who was trying to figure out where to put the bullet for a textbook execution, _this_ Dean just smoothed my hair down. "You coded. God, Sammy, you scared me!"

"S'rry."

"You should be! Giant _freak_… What did he say to you, Sam?"

I try to remember – there's a vague flash of fingers brushing my temple, squeezing my hand hard enough to _hurt_, pressing down on my neck. It makes my head spin to think of it.

I can't help the flinch.

"Hey!" Dean soothes. "Hey, calm down. You're OK. It wasn't me. I'm here. Had to sweet talk about eight nurses to get them to let me sit here alone. Bobby's on his way."

I open my eyes fully. _Bobby's alive?_

Dean reads the unspoken question. "He's fine. He'll get us out." Dean holds up a book. "I found this – looks like the kind of thing you'd like. And it'll keep us both awake until Bobby gets here."

I couldn't help a grin. _That_ was Dean.

He grins back, making himself comfortable with his elbows resting on the mattress. "Oh, and by the way, Sam," he says casually, "I don't know how hallucinations work in general, but the book was lying around and with a geek like you… If he said anything about shooting you like a mad dog, he was lying and I am going to kick his ass for even suggesting it. And when you're better, I'm going to kick your ass for thinking it. OK?"

My grin widens. Definitely Dean. Nobody can ever know me as well as my big brother does.

Dean just rolls his eyes and starts to read. "_When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow…_"

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><p>What did you think? Please review!<p>

Also, enjoy Friday! ;-)


	4. Yesterday's News

Author's Note: And… no hospital Sammy! That was just _mean_. But maybe lawyer Sammy next week will make up for it? (Not that I'm getting my hopes too high.)

Meanwhile, there's this. I hope you like it!

Thanks to everyone who reviewed: cookjar, Klutzygirl33, criminally charmed, BranchSuper, CeCe Away, Mrs winchester, twomoms, Shakari, Eavis, judyann, sammynanci, stelladelnordxd, Shannanigans, SandyDee84, crazybeagle, SPN Mum, Scribble2Much, BerrySPNFMA, Jane88, Likaella, cold kagome and Twinchester Angel.

Thanks to Cheryl for encouragement and help!

**Summary:** Tag to 7.03 _The Girl Next Door_: Sam comes across a newspaper. Again.

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><p><strong>Yesterday's News<strong>

As soon as Sam steps into the motel room, I know something's wrong.

He comes to where I'm sitting on the couch, drops my burger and pie – _finally_ the kid remembered my pie! – on my lap like he's contaminated by even _touching _the bag they came in, and stalks away without acknowledging my thank-you.

_Damn it._

Sam sits at the small table by the window, pulls a paper out of his jacket, and starts to read, completely ignoring me.

This, right here, is precisely the kind of situation I've spent my life trying to avoid. I know this attitude, just like I know all Sam's moods and can identify all his bitchfaces. _This_ one means I've done something to piss him off (which is normal) and that whatever it is has him so mad that he can't stand to look at me (which isn't). This is how Sam used to get when Dad told him that researching lore about black dogs was more important than his term paper. Or when Dad insisted we leave a town when Sam had precisely one week of the school term left. Or a lot of things related to Dad –

But I've never had this attitude directed at me.

"So how are you now? Seeing things?" I try.

Sam ignores me.

"Sam?"

Sam continues to ignore me.

"_Sammy?_"

The paper comes flying at me and hits me on the forehead.

"_Ow!_ Sam! You can do serious damage doing that!" Still no response, not even a hint of concern – and this from the kid who insists on checking me over for concussion when I hit my head trying to get out of the Impala in a hurry. Whatever it is, Sam's _really_ mad about it.

I pick up the paper and unfold it.

Oh.

I shut my eyes and open them again, hoping that that'll make the headline go away and be replaced by one about who won the local dog show.

Nope. Still there.

_Crap._

"Sammy," I begin, "I can –"

"You really do have horrible luck," Sam says tightly. "The guy in front of me at the diner was on a road trip – passed through Bozeman this morning, and he had the paper sticking out his pocket. If you hadn't insisted on pie in the middle of the night I wouldn't have had to go all the way across town to the one diner that was open and had it."

"But you still got me the pie," I say hopefully. "So you're not that mad, right?"

Sam glares at me. Then he flips open his laptop and starts typing.

"Sam –"

"Shut up, Dean."

I shut up and look down at the paper again, at the headline that's staring me in the face in black-and-white accusation.

_Woman found stabbed in motel room._

Sam's right. I do have the most horrible luck.

An hour later, I've eaten the burger and the pie – which tasted awful, but that probably was because Sam spent the entire hour bent over his laptop without once looking in my direction and didn't even bother to respond when I offered to share with him.

I get off the couch and go sit opposite him, pushing the laptop shut. Sam scowls at me. "_What?_"

"How much trouble am I in?"

"The awesome Dean Winchester in trouble?" Sam snarls, opening his laptop again. "You're _joking_, right?"

_Ouch._

"OK," I say, because the thing at times like this is to keep Sam talking. If you let him clam up he'll stay mad at you for weeks. "_That _much trouble. Haven't been in that much trouble for _years_ – not since that time with the library book and Gladys Morrow. So can we just assume you've not talked to me for four days and skip to the part where I tell you how sorry I am and you stop being mad?"

"Who said I'm mad?" Sam says, looking at me over the screen. "You did what you had to do. Can't ever trust a freak, right?"

"Sam –"

I'm interrupted by my phone ringing. Bobby. I let it go to voicemail.

"Might as well talk to him," Sam tells me. "I'll leave if you need to discuss me. You don't have to make up any excuses about being hungry." I must look as shocked as I feel, because Sam smiles without humour. "What, you thought I didn't know you were doing that? I'm crazy, Dean, not stupid."

"I didn't say you were crazy."

"No. You just thought it."

"Sammy, please."

Sam goes back to his laptop. After a minute he says, "I found a job. Looks pretty straightforward – typical vengeful spirit."

"Great," I say, relieved at the olive branch. "Where are we going?"

He looks up again. "_I'm_ going to California to deal with it. Don't worry, I won't touch the Impala."

Apparently _not _an olive branch.

"OK," I try. "Yeah, I guess you need a break from me hovering all the time, huh? So you deal with it and I'll meet you in Salem when you're done. Maybe we can even take a couple of days off." Sam doesn't respond. "And there's a suspected shifter an hour out of here – I can take it down while you're in California."

Sam shrugs.

"Not sure who she is," I say, and if my voice sounds a little desperate there's nothing I can do about it. I screwed up – I _know_ I screwed up, and I don't blame Sam for being mad. "Not even sure it's a _she_, although it does look like it – you believe the news reports, it could be either Missy Baker or Olivia West. Probably just gank them both to be on the safe side, huh, Sam?"

"Do what you want, Dean."

That stops me short. "Do what I want?" Sam shrugs. "Sammy, we're talking about two innocent people here."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I forgot. Innocent people, not _freaks_. Fine. Don't kill them. Was that what I was supposed to say?"

"That wasn't how it was, Sam," I say, not talking about the shifter anymore.

Sam looks up from his laptop to give me the most epic bitchface I have ever seen. "Yeah? Then why don't you tell me how it was, Dean?"

_Yes._ OK, he's still mad, but at least he's _talking_ to me now.

"Amy was dangerous, Sam. What if her kid had gotten sick again? I'm not – Sam, I understand why she did it. I _do_. God knows if you were dying and I could save you by killing some lowlife drug-dealer, I'd do it. But, Sammy, she had to go."

"That's not the point."

"That's not?" I ask stupidly.

"You _said_ you trusted me."

"Sam, that's not – Sam, God, _no_." I'm around the table and gripping his shoulders before I know what's happening. "You think – Sammy, look at me. _Look at me._"

Sam's eyes meet mine.

"This was never about trusting you, Sammy. I trust you completely."

"Then why didn't you _tell _me? What did you think I would do? Warn Amy? Beat you to her motel room and be waiting there with a knife?"

"No. Don't be ridiculous." I risk a light squeeze to Sam's shoulders. "You've got my back, I know that. I _knew _that between me and Amy you'd pick me. I knew that. I didn't want to force you to choose. She killed her mom to save you."

"Screw you," Sam mutters, dropping his gaze.

"I couldn't…" I release Sam's shoulders and step back. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I know how it looks. I should've told you after I did it."

"What you should have done was not _lied_ about trusting me. I _get_ it, Dean. You can't trust a freak. I can deal with –"

"Sam!" I snap. "Another new rule, starting now. You call my little brother a freak, you get punched. Got that?" I go on without waiting for a response. "Now _listen_. I know I screwed up and I deserve to have you mad at me. But you have to let me explain."

"Why?"

"_Why?_" I ask, taken aback. "Because – isn't it in your damn rulebook, or something? The one you quote from whenever I want to do anything fun?"

Sam rolls his eyes, and already I can tell he's not as angry. "Fine. Explain."

"I need you to be _you_. You never give up – you hold on and you keep fighting – and you believe in people. You believed in _me_ when nobody else did. You – I didn't – I _don't_ want you to –" I take a deep breath and start over. "Sam… Lucifer tortured you in the Cage for nearly two hundred years. And then Cas broke the wall – he broke _you_ – and you survived it. Damned if I know how, but you did. And you were still you. You were still willing to see the good in Cas despite what he did to you. I – I didn't want to see you lose that faith in people because of Amy."

"Screw you," Sam mutters, but there's less heat in it this time.

"And I _couldn't_ tell you, Sammy. I couldn't do that to you. She saved your life; it would've killed you to be complicit in taking her down. I couldn't." I reach for Sam again. He resists, drawing back a little, and I push down the hurt at that. "Sammy, I trust you completely. I trust you to keep me human. I trust you to believe when I don't and to have faith when I can't. I trust you to have my back. But I _don't_ trust you to see the worst in people, and I don't ever want to."

"She promised me she wouldn't kill again."

"She wouldn't have killed for herself. But for her kid… I will always be grateful to her for saving your life. But I couldn't take the risk." I don't tell him what risk; it's true that I couldn't risk her killing people, but what I could risk even less was having her destroy Sam's ability to trust. It's what makes him who he is, what makes him my Sammy. "Sam, please."

Sam leans towards me. I take a step closer, letting him bunch his fingers in my jacket. "I'm still mad at you."

"OK," I say lightly, rubbing his head. "How about if I do the breakfast run tomorrow? I'll get you multigrain bagels."

Sam's glare is half-hearted, and when I reach down to squeeze his shoulder he doesn't pull away.

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p>

Enjoy _Defending Your Life_! I can't promise a tag for it – that'll depend on how it turns out – but if it's good then expect something this time next week. ;-)


	5. It Wasn't About Winning

**Author's Note:** So… Yes. This is late. But there almost wasn't a tag to this episode; much gratitude to SandyDee84 for ensuring that there was. And to Cheryl, as always.

Thanks to Katy M VT, Klutzygirl33, cookjar, Eavis, doyleshuny, crazybeagle, SPN Mum, criminally charmed, Shakari, Jane88, twomom, judyann, kit, fan88, Mrs Winchester, Queen Bee, scootersmom, fanotheboyz, nupinoop296, SandyDee84, BranchSuper, Wynne88, Anonymous, casammy, Likaella, BerrySPNFMA, CeCe Away, Adrian Nox, stelladelnordxd and Scribble2Much for the reviews.

PS: Don't worry, there'll definitely be a tag to _Shut Up, Dr. Phil_. ;-)

**Summary:** Sort-of-tag to _Defending Your Life_: After the Osiris incident, Dean's even more determined to keep track of his little brother. But just how useful _is_ GPS when the person at the end of the rope is a supergeek?

* * *

><p><strong>It Wasn't About Winning<strong>

I fumed silently as I looked around the crowded… _cafe_. Let's call it a cafe.

Not that I have a _problem_ giving it its proper name, but Samantha the Giant Prude is sitting right next to me, and he's bigger than I am. (Bigger than most normal people are, which is just typical of Sam's over-enthusiastic approach to things. When he hit his growth spurt, it was clear that he was going to damn well _have _a growth spurt and anything – people, doorways, the laws of the natural world – that stood in his way was just going to have to get with the programme.)

I looked around the _cafe_ a second time, although the first had been enough to assure me that my half-witted brother wasn't in it. The girls who were – uh, _waiting tables_ – were of the svelte, endless-legs variety; their dangerous-looking heels meant they were probably just a few inches short of being able to look Sammy in the eye. But, although they were all tall, none of them was Sasquatch-sized.

The few men who were around being _waited on_ were definitely not Sam.

One girl, a little more stylishly dressed – or, you know, a little more _dressed_ – than the others, obviously the supervisor, sashayed towards me.

"Hey, handsome," she drawled throatily. "How can we help you today?"

_Damn Sam._

* * *

><p>It all started that morning, and I suppose it was really my own stupid fault. I should've known better than to challenge the King of Nerds on technology.<p>

I was still feeling a little shaky after the incident with Osiris. What Sam said about Jessica made sense; it wasn't my fault she died. Azazel already had an eye on Sam. He would have killed someone before long; if not Jess then someone else, maybe Zach or Becky.

Of course, if Jess had lived, if my little brother's heart hadn't been broken –

That wasn't my fault, though.

But Sam in the Cage? Letting Sam keep hunting with me after Dad died instead of talking him out of revenge and sending him back to college? (And _yes_, I could've done that, Sam. _Sure_ you would've agreed to it, if I came with you and we just hunted wendigos on weekends or something quiet like that.)

So, yeah, I was feeling a little bad. There were screw-ups on all sides, and a lot of douchebaggery from the Angels, but most of us got off lightly. The only ones who paid were Gabriel – and, honestly, I can't help thinking he deserved what he got, the warped freak – and Sam – who certainly _didn't_ deserve the torture he went through.

He'd had a bit of a space-out that morning, and I'd been worried about him and said so. Sam had laughed at me and pointed out that he'd been fine with Amy, I'd wanted to get off the subject of Amy because _Oh God please no I don't want my baby brother to hate me_, one thing had led to another, and I'd found myself lecturing Sam about turning off his GPS.

"But, Dean," he'd said patiently, "it's really not that helpful. I mean, GPS _used _to be helpful before smartphones got really smart. Now…" He shrugged.

Sam looked infuriatingly like a smug sales kid I'd met when I'd last had to replace my cell phone. The sales kid lectured me about operating systems and processor speeds and when I said I didn't freaking _care _if it came with _Angry Birds_ preloaded or not, he looked like I'd insulted his mother. (Seriously, _Angry Birds_? I should've pushed him in the path of a couple of harpies; then he'd've known to shut up about angry birds.)

I should've known to keep my mouth shut, because the sales kid was just an annoying kid, but _Sammy_ is an annoying kid who routinely hacks into supposedly secure servers.

But _no_. The Awesome Dean Winchester, Idiot of the Year, had to challenge his little brother to a round of urban tracking. And he had to do it on his little brother's turf.

To be fair to me, I thought it would be easy. GPS coordinates are easy to track, and Sam's big enough that if I get within a hundred yards of him, he'll stick out of the crowd like a giraffe in the middle of a pack of leopards. (I _mean_ that – Sam's just like a giraffe, tall, strong, and stupidly gentle.)

And I thought the conditions of the bet were clear: Sam had to keep GPS turned on and keep his cell phone on his person, and he was not allowed to take out the GPS chip and glue it to the rear bumper of a schoolbus.

Yet here I was in a – a _cafe_. One that seemed completely Sam-free.

"Ummm… Was someone here?" I asked the sashaying head waitress. "A man with brown hair?"

"Honey, we've seen dozens of men here today, and most of them had brown hair." She indicated the dim ceiling lamps. "Can't really tell, anyway. Our customers like it that way."

"He would've been wearing a blue shirt with – ah, screw that," I said, seeing her shrug. "Have you seen a guy the size of a redwood?"

She laughed. "I don't think so, honey. He a friend of yours?"

"Sort of… If you see him come in, will you tell him Dean's going to kill him?"

"And I'll know it's him because…"

"He'll be the guy who has to stoop to get through your doorway. Oh, yeah, and he has brown hair."

"Sure thing, sugar. You sure we can't interest you in –"

"_No_," I said quickly. If Sam _had _engineered the encounter, he probably had some way of listening in. "No, er… Thank you. Maybe some other time."

* * *

><p>I left the <em>cafe<em> and consulted my phone again. Sam's signal was beeping at me from across town. (And I _swear_ the freaking blip was _smirking_ at me.)

I got into the Impala. "You're on my side, aren't you, baby?" I murmured. "Not going to side with Sam, are you? See, I have to win this bet. It's really important. If I do it, Sam'll keep his GPS on all the time. We need that. We have to watch out for Sammy, right?" I patted the dash. "So we're going to do this."

My phone rang. I picked it up.

"Sam."

"Dean!" Sam sounded like he'd just been laughing. "You only have two hours left. I don't see you anywhere here."

"You misdirected me on purpose, you little bitch!"

Sam snickered. "How was Mindy?"

"Mindy? Who the hell is Mindy?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "The lady in charge of the establishment you just visited, Dean. Six-two, blonde, blue eyes?"

"The head waitress?"

"_Waitress?_ Dean, what are you talking about?"

"Never mind. You were _there_? But she said you weren't there!"

"Of course she_ said _that. I told her it was a bet and she wasn't supposed to help you. You're not allowed to ask people where I am, Dean! That's cheating!"

"Sam, if you go missing on me again for _real_, I will put out an APB. Now where are you?"

"Uh-uh. You have to find me. And now you only have an hour and fifty-five minutes. Remember, at noon I win."

"Shut up," I snapped, ending the call and thumbing the GPS tracker back on. "C'mon, baby – time to go to Sam."

* * *

><p>It was a huge building with a marble facade that was all carved cherubim and soaring columns. Large engraved lettering between the two middle pillars read <em>OPERA HOUSE<em>. As I drew up outside it, a young man in a black suit hurried up to me and held out his hand for the keys.

"No valet parking," I snapped. "I'll just be a minute. She can wait here."

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is a No Parking area. I promise your car will be quite safe with us."

"Are you crazy? No! This is just going to take me a minute. I need to find my little brother."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to remove your car."

"_Remove_ my car? What do you mean _remove_? She's my baby, not an ink spot."

By this time, the young man's manager had arrived to see what the confusion was about.

"I don't want anyone to move my car," I explained. "I haven't come to see _The Four Seasons_ –"

"Of course you haven't," the manager agreed. "We never play concertos. We're playing _Faust_ this evening; I believe there are still some excellent tickets available. I'd be happy to escort you to the Box Office."

"I'm looking for my brother!" I said, exasperated. "My little brother. He's lost."

"Oh!" The manager became much more serious. "And you believe he might have come here?"

I shrugged. "He likes the opera."

"What does he look like?"

"Sam's tall – taller than me, he's got brown hair –"

"Wait, taller than you? I thought you said he was your little brother."

I sighed. That joke had gotten old when Sam had been finishing high school. "Yeah, yeah, he's taller. Drank his milk and ate his vegetables when we were growing up. Have you seen him?"

"Do you mean your brother is an _adult_?"

"Of course he's an adult, dude! Look, I don't know where he is, so I'm tracking his GPS –"

"Are you _stalking_ your brother?"

* * *

><p>So, yeah. No luck at the opera house, but my phone rang as soon as I left it. Obviously.<p>

It was Sam.

_Obviously._

"Let me guess," I grunted. "The guy in the black suit was your partner?"

"No, Dean. _You're _my partner. Chuck is an honoured associate."

"_Chuck?_"

"The parking attendant at the opera house. And you're running out of time."

"Screw you," I muttered, hanging up.

* * *

><p>Sam's GPS led me back and forth through the city, disappearing from one location to reappear almost at once in another one five miles away. If it hadn't been Sam, I'd've said he'd taken his phone apart and tossed the GPS onto a subway train… But it <em>was<em> Sam. And Sammy's a stickler for rules. Which meant he'd found a way to fool the GPS. (We hadn't said hacking wasn't allowed, a condition I realized later that I should have insisted on.)

I got thrown out of the city library by a white-haired dragon-lady who looked like she'd spank me if I didn't take myself and my dirty boots off her clean floors. I drank beer at a bar full of preppy college kids, and they stared at me like I was a creepy loner (which, let's face it, I was). I stood in line for tickets to a movie with _Hugh Grant_ in it just to be able to talk to the cashier.

And I got nowhere. Sam had been there before me and brainwashed them all good and proper.

* * *

><p>The last place was a small square with a church at one end. The church had a clock tower. The minute hand was on the eleven. I just <em>knew <em>Sam had picked it so I could see the exact moment when he won the bet.

Little bitch.

There was a hotdog stand at one end of the square. I decided to try my luck there.

"Hotdog?" the vendor asked.

I hesitated – but what the hell, Sam was nowhere in sight. If _anything_ caused him to show himself, it would be the sight of me eating artery-clogging food.

I took a hotdog and looked around hopefully.

No Sam.

"I don't suppose you've seen a really tall guy?" I asked the vendor. "Taller than me, brown hair, probably made big eyes at you?"

The vendor shook his head a little too quickly.

"Come on," I coaxed. "He's my brother."

The vendor shook his head again.

I could see the clock tower out of the corner of my eye. _Two minutes._ Time for the big guns.

(Sam thinks his I'm-a-lost-puppy expression can get him anything he wants. It usually does. But there's one expression that it _can't _beat. I like to call it I'm-the-owner-of-the-lost-puppy-and-I'm-trying-to-bring-him-home.)

"Please," I said. "He's my little brother, and he's been very sick. I really need to find him."

The vendor was wavering.

"_Please._"

"I promised him I wouldn't."

"He's my _brother_."

"He said you had a bet on."

"I just need to know he's OK."

The man sighed. "Fine, but if he asks, you forced me at gunpoint."

"Sure," I said, grinning.

"He's –"

The bells began to chime.

"– right behind you," the man finished, when the bells had stopped and the clock showed twelve-oh-one.

* * *

><p>I couldn't keep my frustration from showing. This hadn't just been a <em>bet<em>; I _needed_ Sam to agree to keep his GPS turned on. The thought of Sam being missing – Sam being somewhere like that warehouse with a loaded gun and Lucifer telling him to off himself, Sam _without_ me to talk him down from the edge – sent horror curling through my gut.

I think Sam knew I was mad, because he didn't say a word all the way back to the motel. We were back in our room before he even said tentatively, "Dean?"

"What?" I snapped. "You won. Awesome. Do we have to discuss it?"

"I don't get what you're so upset about. It was just a stupid bet."

"Oh, shut up, Sam!"

"Dean –"

"Shut the hell up," I snarled, so angrily that Sam backed away. "Do you have _any _idea – this isn't about proving that you're a geek, Sam! Were you _ever_ in any of those places?"

"I went to them all yesterday to figure out the coordinates," Sam said quietly. "Except the square; I went there this morning. That's where I was all along."

"And you think that's funny?"

"No, Dean, but I do think it's ridiculous that you think I need to be _tracked_ like a migrating crane! And it's not that hard to fool GPS."

"Yeah, _now_. I'm pretty sure if you have Lucifer in your head, you won't stop to play Let's Make Dean Look Stupid."

"Dean –"

"Never mind," I snapped, throwing myself down on my bed. "You won, Sam. I get it. No GPS. Do you mind getting me a beer?"

Wordlessly, Sam went to the mini-fridge and pulled out a couple of cans. He came back and handed me one.

"Thanks. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm going to watch some TV."

Sam huffed. I glared at him. He glared back.

Then, unexpectedly, he tossed his phone in my lap.

I stared at it for a second. "Sam, what –"

"I still think it's unnecessary," Sam said quietly. "But if it means that much to you, turn it on."

"Really?"

"Really."

"You won't turn it off?"

"I won't turn it off."

"Sam –"

"I'm going to shower," Sam said, moving away.

"Sammy, you know I didn't mean – I'm not suggesting that you can't –"

"Shut up," Sam snapped, grabbing a shirt from his duffel. He paused in the bathroom doorway to turn and say, softly, "Jerk."

I grinned at him. "Bitch."

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	6. One Thing at a Time

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to judyann, SandyDee84, cold kagome, Eavis, twomoms, doyleshuny, Klutzygirl33, Jane88, BranchSuper, stelladelnordxd, SPN Mum, ami, sammynanci, Likaella, BerrySPNFMA, Scribble2Much and CeCe Away for reviewing the last chapter.

Much gratitude, as always, to Cheryl.

**Summary:** Tag to 7.05, _Shut Up, Dr. Phil_. Sam's struck by a sudden thought. Dean doesn't like it.

* * *

><p><strong>One Thing at a Time<strong>

We're half an hour out of witch country when a sharp turn makes Sam flinch.

I hit the brakes hard.

I know we have no time to lose, but Sam's had such a good week that I've just been _waiting_ for something to go wrong, and if this is it then screw the Leviathans, screw _everything_. I have a brother to take care of.

"Sammy?"

"I'm fine," Sam says. "Just – I think she cracked a couple of ribs."

I don't know whether to panic or feel relieved. On the one hand, cracked ribs can lead to complications, and since Sam's life's purpose seems to be to prevent me from having a single night's peaceful sleep, he'll probably find a way to make this end with him in a hospital room on a ventilator. On the other… Cracked ribs are just cracked ribs. I know how to deal with them.

They're not Lucifer.

"You sure?" I ask.

"Yes, Dean," Sam says. He's using his _Big brothers are stupid_ voice, and normally that would make me start driving again and let him stew – not my fault he's as fragile as a six-year-old girl – but he's paler than he should be.

The truth – the honest-to-God truth – is that I still can't believe it's going to be this easy.

Don't get me wrong. I know Sam's strong. The hits have been coming since he was six months old and he's never given up. Sure, Cas and Crowley and Meg – even _Death_ – thought Sammy would be a drooling vegetable once he was put back together, but I knew better. I knew he'd fight it.

But even _I _didn't expect him to be doing this well.

Sam's not just surviving, he's _alive_.

As a kid Sam was always into weird crap. When he was in fifth grade he spent a month doing breathing exercises for half an hour every morning. A couple of years later he went salt-free – fortunately _that_ didn't last beyond a week.

Then there was the memorable Vegan Phase when he was seventeen. For nearly five weeks we'd go to a diner, I'd order _food_, Dad would order _food_, and Sam would order _tofu_. It was embarrassing.

The Vegan Phase was the last time I saw a Sammy-obsession. Sure, he always lectured me about my arteries, and he always ordered rabbit food if it was available and scowled at perfectly good hamburgers if it wasn't, and he occasionally tried to make me eat salad, but it wasn't the same thing. (I _know_, but once you've lived through one of them, you _know_ the difference between Sam being obsessed and Sam being a general pain in the ass.)

I thought either Stanford or Jess dying had knocked them out of him – and anything _they'd_ left had been torn to pieces and trodden into the mud by Dad's death, Yellow-Eyes, my deal, Lilith, Ruby, Lucifer and our Purgatory-opening friends. I never would've admitted it to Sam, but I felt kind of bad about that. Sam's weird phases were what made him _Sam_, just like girly haircuts and being a geek.

So – Sam doesn't know this – I was secretly _beyond_ relieved when he bought a new pair of cross-trainers and started doing the Lance Armstrong impression. I was _ecstatic_.

It's a sign that my Sammy is back.

I look at him now as he sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed defiantly, daring me to disbelieve him.

"Fine," I say. "Let me see."

"We don't have time. We have to get _that_ to Bobby." He punctuates his sentence with a wave in the general direction of the Levi-whatsit in the backseat.

"Yeah, and I don't want to have to stop to take you to the ER with a punctured lung. That'll wind up taking even longer. _Let me see._"

Instead of waiting for Sam to answer, I shove his hands aside and push up the seventeen layers of shirts he's wearing.

"Dude," he complains. "We're in the middle of the street."

"You should've told me about your ribs earlier. Then we wouldn't have had to _do _this in the middle of the street instead of in a motel room."

I can't quite suppress the horrified gasp at the sight of Sam's black-and-blue chest. He has bruises forming around his throat, too, fainter than the ones on his ribs – thank _God_, because if something had choked him that hard even _Sammy_ couldn't have survived it. They're light, but you can see the marks of four fingers and a thumb.

That Leviathan is _so _dead. Doesn't matter if Bobby has somewhere to stash it or not. If he doesn't, I'll tear it apart by _hand_.

"_Dean_," Sam protests, and I realize I'm holding his shirt up and gazing unseeingly at his bruised ribs while happy thoughts of torturing the thing that choked Sam float through my head.

"Oh." I let his shirt fall. I rest my hand on his chest for a minute – just to see if he reacts to the pressure on his ribs; I am totally _not_ trying to feel his heartbeat. The thump under my fingers is steady and reassuring. (_What?_ I said I wasn't _trying_ to feel his heartbeat. I can't help it if it's _there_.) "You sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine, Dean."

But Sam leans forward a little, and I know there's something on his mind.

I hope he's not going to ask me what I'm hiding again. I don't want an argument, and I don't like keeping secrets, but I can't tell him that – I just _can't_. We've just started to be brothers again – Sam's just started to look at me the way he used to when he was a kid, before all this crap started, not like he's grateful to me or scared of me or worried about upsetting me, but like he trusts me and he thinks his big brother is kind of awesome.

I can't do anything that might make that look go away.

Fortunately, Sam doesn't bring it up. He just says, "I don't really _remember_ what happened in the Cage. Not – you know – not like _remembering_."

"I thought you remembered everything."

"I do," Sam agrees, "if I think about it. If I don't…" He shrugs. "It's not like I have to make an extra effort to remember. I mean, I _know_ what Lucifer did to me. But if I don't consciously think about it, it… Well, it sort of stays in the background. I know it's there but I don't _know _what's in it – not unless I look."

"That's good," I say. When Sam doesn't respond, I add, "Isn't it, Sammy?"

"I don't know," Sam says, and from his tone it's like he's confessing to stealing candy from babies. "What if there's something important in there, Dean?"

"Like _what_?" I scoff. "How Lucifer and Michael are a pair of evil sons of bitches who deserve each other? We already know that."

"Like a way around our Leviathan problem." Sam shrugs uncomfortably. "Lucifer and Michael, Dean. They would know if anyone would. And I just – I won't know unless I _try_ to remember."

"Don't be ridiculous," I say shortly.

"But Dean –"

"Don't even _think _about it."

"But what if that's the only way?" I hesitate. "_Dean,_" Sam presses. "We've got _nothing_. Besides…" He pauses. "The Wicked Witch of the West back there said she'd seen the same thing for eight hundred years."

"So?" I shrugged. "Witches are old."

"Yes, but _eight hundred years_, Dean? And Don Stark knowing a spell to stun a Leviathan? Exactly eight hundred years?" I must have looked uncomprehending, because he sighed and said, "Dante started writing _The Divine Comedy_ almost exactly eight hundred years ago, Dean. You descend to depths of Hell and find Purgatory by coming out on the other side."

"I don't know, Sam," I say slowly. "It's circumstantial evidence."

"We've worked on less."

"We've not risked your sanity on less."

"It might be the only way, Dean."

"We'll talk about it," I say, and Sam, clearly expecting a stronger argument, is too shocked to say anything. "We'll talk about it _later_, when you're dealing with Hell better. You took down the _Devil_, Sam, and you rode him back into his Cage and dragged an Archangel with you. You've got to give yourself time to recuperate before you start trying to take out things that are older than the freaking _world_."

"We'll… really talk about it?"

"Yes, Sam."

"And you'll _really_ consider it?"

"I'm not promising to let you do it," I warn him. "And I don't want you poking around at _anything_ in your head until we've discussed it. We'll _talk_ about it, and I'll keep an open mind."

"_Really?_"

"Yes, Sam."

It isn't because I'm thinking of the greater good that I'm saying that. I think Sam's sacrificed enough to the greater good.

I'm just thinking of Sam.

Sam always picks himself up and gets back into the fight. It's who he _is_, just like the girly haircuts and the geekiness and the strange obsessions.

After everything he's been through, I'm not going to take that away from him.

I'm just going to make sure he's prepared for whatever comes.

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	7. Secrets

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

As always, thanks to Cheryl for being awesome.

Thanks to Klutzygirl33, BerrySPNFMA, doyleshuny, stelladelnordxd, judyann, cold kagome, Eavis, BranchSuper, Gabthevamp, SandyDee84, scootersmom, Silverchild of the winds, CeCe Away, Likaella, Jane88, battle at arizona, twomom, SPN Mum, Scribble2Much and crazybeagle for the reviews!

A couple of days later than I planned to post, but I hope you won't mind. This is for everyone who PMed asking about the tag to _Slash Fiction_… You didn't _really_ think I could possibly let this one go untagged, did you? And especially for Scribble2Much – I hope this satisfies! ;-)

**Summary: **Tag to 7.06, _Slash Fiction_. Dean's panicking.

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><p><strong>Secrets<strong>

All of a sudden this has turned into a situation I don't understand.

I wasn't expecting Sam to actually _go_. I mean, yeah, he said he couldn't be around me and he got his bag, but Sam's a girl and he likes to make scenes. I thought – I don't know. I thought he needed some time to cool off, that he'd go find a bench and sit and watch the water or something, and when he'd simmered down he'd come back and let me apologize.

The thing is, this seems like such a _minor_ thing compared to the stuff that Sam's forgiven me for without even needing to be _asked_. I've had my share of screw-ups, I've gotten him hurt, _I've _hurt him, and Sam's never been mad for long. I mean, yeah, there was Stanford, but then it was _Dad_ he was annoyed with, not me.

Sam doesn't stay mad at me.

He doesn't walk away and not come back even after I've given him enough time to simmer down five times over. He doesn't go missing and _stay _missing.

I think I'm going to go insane. I am actually, _literally_ going to go insane. Now.

This wasn't – this _isn't_ supposed to happen.

Sam's gone. The idiot Frank Devereaux went and gave my already-a-geek brother extra _lessons_ in dropping off the grid, and the result is that Sam is so thoroughly and completely missing that I can't find him.

_I can't find Sam._

Sam's hurting. Sam's alone. Sam's alone and he's hurting and I'm not with him and, God, I'm the one who hurt him, I'm the _reason_ he's alone and hurting, and when did the world spin off its freaking axis like this?

I can't find Sam.

This isn't supposed to happen.

I can't find Sam.

I'm freaking out like the freaking cupcake girl about the tiny hearts. That's not supposed to happen either. But then, I'm not supposed to hurt Sam.

I dial Sam's new number for what's probably the fiftieth time that hour. The call rolls to voicemail.

"_This is Sam. Leave a message._"

My throat constricts. I force it to loosen, because I _have_ to leave a message. I don't know if it'll do any good. Sam hasn't responded to the previous forty-nine messages. There's no reason to assume he'll respond to this one. But I have to keep trying because it's Sam, and he's missing, and all I have of him right now is his voice on the recording.

I'm pathetic.

"Sammy, please," I say. "I'm sorry. _Please._" That's the pleading. Now for the coaxing. "Come on, man, you know you can't stay mad at me. Just call me back." Bribery comes next. "You do that and I'll let you pick the music for a month." Is that enough of a bribe? "For _two _months." That? "And when we get baby back, I'll let you have the first drive. Come on, Sammy, nobody's going to give you a better offer than that." Finish with the threat. "Sam? Sammy, you come right the hell back right the hell _now_ or I'm going to be _mad_. You hear me? You walk your sulking ass back to the Impala. _Now._"

I wait ten minutes. (My cell phone says it's only been a minute and a half, but what does it know? It's not the cell phone Sammy picked out for me after a detailed discussion with the sales geek. It's the cell phone Frank Devereaux gave me. It probably doesn't know how to read time.)

I try Sammy again. Then I call Bobby. Again.

Bobby says, "No, he _hasn't_ called me, idjit. If he does, I'll be sure to let you know."

Ten more minutes. (Thirty seconds according to the stupid cell phone that doesn't know how to read time.) This is it. Sam's been out of my sight a lot too long.

Screw technology. I don't need GPS to tell me where my baby brother is.

I just need a little common sense.

He can't have gone far – probably just caught a bus back to Ankeny. Sam was frustrated and upset; he doesn't do his best thinking then and he knows it. He would just have gone back to the town to find a place to spend the night.

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><p>Like I said, frustrated and upset and therefore not thinking clearly. That's why he went back to Ankeny, back to the same motel we stayed at when we dealt with that judgemental whatever-it-was that girl managed to create - Sam probably remembers the name of the motel, the ghost, and the girl. I don't remember any of them, but I have a pretty good idea where the motel was.<p>

I get into the – I suppose I have to call it a car.

There's a part of me that blames the car for this. Sam wouldn't have walked off on me if we'd had the Impala. She's his home as much as mine, even if he won't admit it. He might've been mad at me, but my baby would've made him feel better about everything.

I get into the _car_ and drive.

Once I've spotted Sam – he hasn't bothered to draw his curtains, the idiot, and we are going to be having _words _about that – I consider my next move. Going in might be counter-productive.

Instead, I go to the nearest diner and get the biggest salad and girliest coffee they have on offer. (Seriously, it has no caffeine, and it's cold, and it has caramel and cinnamon and _fruit_. And about three inches of whipped cream on top. I don't know why they can't just come right out and call it a milkshake.)

On my way out, I see a bookstore still open across the street. I go there, ignore the guy who's telling me that foodstuffs aren't allowed inside, and buy everything on the current top ten bestseller list. There's bound to be _one _of them that Sam likes enough to stop being mad.

Finally, I go to Sam's motel room.

I knock.

"Go away, Dean!" Sam yells from inside.

"I'm not going anywhere until you talk to me!" I yell back. A woman passing on her way to her own room stops and stares at me.

Awesome. The other patrons of the motel probably think I've been locked out by my wife.

"Sammy," I try again, "_please_. Just let me in." There's silence from inside. "Just for tonight, Sam. If you're still mad in the morning…" I break off. I'd meant to tell him that he could _go_ if he was still mad in the morning, but who am I kidding? I would _never_ let him leave, and I can't lie to him again. "Sam, please."

The door opens.

Sam looks every bit as pissed as he was that afternoon.

"Hey, kiddo," I say, smiling as brightly as I can manage. "I brought you dinner. Can I come in?"

Sam's glare intensifies, but he steps back from the door, giving me room to step inside. I go in, kick the door shut –

And stop short.

Because there's a bloodstained knife on the table, and a dark, sticky stain drying on the carpet under the chair Sam was sitting in, and what the _hell_?

"Sam?" I grab his left hand and turn it over, hoping against hope that I'm wrong.

I'm right. The one time in my life I would have given everything I own to be wrong, and I'm right.

The Fates must really hate me.

There are two deep cuts across Sam's palm.

"Sam, what the hell?"

Sam snatches his hand back angrily. "What do you want?"

My mind is refusing to move past the idea of Sam having a self-inflicted injury.

"What the hell were you trying to _do_?"

"Flashbacks. Lucifer." He shrugged. "Physical pain helps. It was _your _idea."

I can't deny that. It _was _my idea. But I just meant for Sam to pinch himself, the way you do when you want to wake up from a nightmare. I didn't want –

God, I didn't want _this_.

_Sammy._

"I – I brought you food," I manage to say. "And a book." I put the salad and milkshake – I absolutely _refuse_ to call that thing coffee – on the table and hold out the shopping bag from the bookstore. "I wasn't… I didn't really know which one you'd like, so I brought you a few to choose from."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Why are you here?"

"Because I'm your brother," I snap, putting the books down and getting up in Sam's face – or as close to it as I can, freaking giraffe. "I get that you're mad at me, and I don't blame you, but if you're going to not talk to me, I'd rather having you do it in a place where I can see you."

"Oh, right, I forgot you can't trust _freaks_."

"_Sam_." I stop and draw a couple of deep breaths. One thing at a time. "Why did you _cut _yourself, Sam?"

"I told you. Lucifer."

"Yeah, but – Lucifer's – you've never had to do _that _before." Sam shrugs. "Sammy?"

"_Don't _call me Sammy."

I ignore him and go for the first-aid kit.

It's when I come back and try to shove him into a chair that I realize just how hard this is going to be.

I spend a lot of time pushing Sam around – literally – getting him moving or persuading him to sit or stand or get in bed or out of it or rearranging him so I can get at whichever part of his body I need to clean and stitch. Sam, for all his size, is usually pretty compliant.

Not this time.

This time, I shove, and the six-and-a-half-foot wall of muscle _resists_.

"Sammy." I push again, and again, Sam simply absorbs the force. "Sam. _Sit._"

"Why?"

"_Why?_ So I can sew up your hand, moron. You go around with open injuries like this, next thing you know someone will be dragging you to a mental health facility and putting you on suicide watch."

"At least I'll be off _your _hands. And _you _won't have to worry about your annoying little brother who's off his rocker."

I don't bother to respond. "_Sit_."

To my surprise, Sam sits and lets me clean his hand. He doesn't react as I dab peroxide into the cuts, doesn't react as I start stitching.

When I'm halfway through, I say, "You want to tell me why the flashbacks suddenly got so bad you had to slice yourself open?"

"No."

"Sam." I look at him a little helplessly. Once again, we're off the map, and I don't know what to do.

It's not like Sam and I never fight – we're brothers. We fight all the time, and we both end up saying a lot of crap we don't mean. And, yeah, Sam's a lot better at the apologizing-and-having-a-chick-flick-moment thing than I am.

But even when it's my fault, Sam doesn't get this mad. Sure, he throws a fit, but there are _rules_. I bring him girly coffee, it means I'm sorry. I bring him girly coffee and rabbit food, it means I'm _really_ sorry. I bring him girly coffee and rabbit food and a _book_, it's as close as Dean Winchester gets to grovelling.

Normally, Sam sees the gesture for what is. _Normally_, he knows the right thing to say and he says it, and I pretend I don't want to listen, and Sam sees right through the lie but he doesn't call me on it and we have a chick-flick moment.

This time I brought Sam girly coffee and rabbit food and the entire bestseller list's worth of books, and he's still mad.

This has never happened before – not with me.

That's when I realize his hand's trembling a little – _he's_ trembling, and although he's mad as hell he's also _scared_. And in the interrogation room – he shrank back like he wasn't sure if I was going to swing the axe at him or the thing that was about to kill him.

I feel physically sick.

I put in the last two stitches. I'm being as gentle as I can, but Sam still flinches.

I don't even know what I'm supposed to deal with first, Lucifer or Amy. Probably Amy, because the only reason Sam's not answering my questions about his flashbacks is that he's still mad about that.

But considering that Sam _cut_ himself, the Lucifer issue seems a lot more pressing.

I wrap a bandage around his hand.

"I know you're mad at me –"

"You _think_?"

"Sam, please." I tie off the bandage. "I know you're mad at me, and – OK, I deserve it, you can be mad at me. But you can't risk your safety. If your flashbacks are getting worse, you need to tell me how and why. Please."

"You really want to know?" Sam asks tightly.

"Yeah," I say, trying to shake the feeling that I'm going to _hate _whatever I'm about to here. "Yeah, Sam. I really want to know."

"Lucifer and Michael – the _real_ ones, I mean, in the Cage – they always said you hadn't trusted me and you never would. Every _day_. When they'd finished torturing me and having hellhounds rip me apart, the _one_ thing I had left was believing in you – in _us_ – and they'd take that away, too. They'd say nothing I did would ever make you see me as anything other than a freak, and then one of them would turn into you and _you'd_ say it. And that, Dean? It isn't different. It's just as bad here as it is in Hell."

Sam's voice is shaking by the time he's finished. I officially hate myself.

I get up and put the first-aid kit away. When I come back, Sam's hunched over on himself, shoulders shaking, and –

And that's _it_. This might be something that has never happened before, and I screwed up in ways I probably don't even understand yet, but I'm a big brother and _nobody_ gets to take that from me.

Not even Sam.

Before he can move, before he even realizes I'm _there_, I sit down, grab him, and pull his head down onto my shoulder. Sam's too startled to react at first; when he does start trying to pull back, I'm ready for it. I tighten my grip.

"No, you listen to me," I say firmly. "I'm sorry, Sam. I know Amy saved your life, she protected you when I wasn't there to do it, and if you think that doesn't mean anything to me then…" I tighten my arms. "But she was killing people. She _would_ have killed again. It was for her kid and I _know _that feeling. I know what I'd do if something were hurting you."

"Screw you," Sam mutters thickly, finally pushing me off.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just – I didn't want you to have to take that decision, Sam. You were just starting to recover. I didn't want to risk making it worse. And once I'd done it… I was afraid it would make you hate me. It wasn't because I didn't trust you, Sammy."

Sam doesn't look like he believes me.

It's time for desperate measures.

"Fine. You need me to prove it?"

"Just go away, Dean."

"I like your music. Not always, but it doesn't piss me off as much as I pretend when it's your turn to pick." Sam, mouth open to protest, stops and stares at me in amazement. "I like watching you puppy-dog people and whenever it doesn't work I just _know_ they're evil."

"Dean –"

"I'm not done. I – well, I don't _like _it when you make bitchfaces and nag me about eating vegetables, but I'd hate it if you stopped. It'd mean you didn't care. I was the one who broke Kevin Connor's nose in high school. The guy was a jerk. That time we were in Cleveland and Dad came back unexpectedly and I told you to keep him busy in the living room? It wasn't because I needed ten minutes to finish my English essay before we started training. It was because Joan Whitaker was in my room and I had to get her out without him seeing. I didn't tell _you_ because you were a kid."

Sam looks more and more shocked.

"I like it when you look at me like you think I'm awesome," I go on. "And – well, I think you're awesome, too. I can't think of _anyone_ else who could've taken all the hits you have and got back up and kept fighting. If I'm proud of anything, it's that I was the one who raised you." Sam's got that dewy-eyed look. "There. Those are my darkest secrets. _Now _do you believe I trust you?"

Sam sighs. "_Dean._"

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

This time when I reach for Sam he responds, burrowing himself into my arms. Something loosens in my chest.

It loosens more when Sam draws back enough to look up at me, eyes bright – too bright, but I'm not calling him on it – and says, "You brought me salad?"

"And girly coffee," I tell him. "And enough books to keep you occupied for a few days." Sam nods, half-smiling, half-not, and lowers his head. "Sammy?" I give him a light shake. "We OK, kiddo?" Sam says nothing. I slide one hand up from his back to rest on his head. "Sammy?"

Sam sighs into my jacket. Finally he says, "We'll get there."

"Really?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Sam tips his head back again. He's smiling fully now – not one of those bright, dimpled, happy puppy smiles, but he's _smiling_, and I tighten my arms around him. "Yeah, Dean. Really."

I can't help smiling back.

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	8. A Little Problem

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Author's Note:** So… Now that our boys are good with each other again, who wants a bit of plotless fun? ;-)

Thanks to Cheryl for all the help, and to Klutzygirl33, SandyDee84, giacinta, primadonna cat, Hunnique, twomoms, stelldelnordxd, judyann, Eavis, BranchSuper, nupinoop296, cookjar, Mrs Winchester, SPN Mum, BerrySPNFMA, Rat, scootersmom, Nyx Ro, Jane88, Likaella, dreamerswaking, sammynanci, ThePinkyPop, godsdaughter77, Scribble2Much and CeCe Away for the reviews!

**Summary:** Tag to 7.07, _The Mentalists. _The boys are on talking terms again. They go to a bar to celebrate.

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><p><strong>A Little Problem<strong>

We closed another case, ganked a ghost, saved a pretty girl, Sam's duffel is right next to mine in the trunk and I have my little brother in the seat next to me instead of a pile of crap.

I need a drink.

"Not _that _kind of drink," I tell Sam impatiently, when I pull up outside the bar and he rolls his eyes in exasperation. "We're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

I briefly consider saying _Celebrating the fact that you're not sulking anymore, moron_ and decide against it. Wouldn't want Sam to think I _missed_ him or anything, because I totally, absolutely didn't. Not been stealing sideways glances at him for the past couple of hours, either. _Definitely_ not been trying to reassure myself that he's still there. I'm not that much of a girl.

"Celebrating that we caught the bad guy. Come on."

"I'll wait here."

"Come _on_, Sam." I reach across him to unlock his door and push him out. "This won't take long. I'm going inside for a drink, and you're coming with me. Just one drink and then if you want to leave we'll go find a motel."

"But –"

I get out and shove Sam inside ahead of me. I can tell he really wants to go, because he's letting me do it. I've tried to shove his Sasquatch ass into a bar when he _doesn't_ want to go, and it's like pushing a brick wall.

The tables are all taken, so we sit at the bar together. Sam's loose and happy and _relaxed_, leaning on the countertop and smiling shyly at the bartender, who looks like she's about to pinch his cheek and offer him candy. I catch her eye and she winks.

"What can I get you boys today?"

"Couple of beers," I say. "Best you've got."

"Sure thing."

She shoves two Bud Lights across the counter, following them up with a bowl of peanuts and a bowl of tortilla chips. After a glance at Sam's almost-bitchface, she adds a bowl of celery sticks.

"Really?" I ask, laughing at Sam's glee. "You actually have those here?"

She nods at Sam. "He's not the first. We get people like that coming in here all the time, won't eat fries and won't eat chicken wings and keep muttering about how they've already exceeded the day's calorie count." She cocks her head. "Of course, most of _them_ are women in their twenties."

Sam looks outraged, and I don't whether it's his expression or the bartender's that's funnier. I can't keep from laughing, until he turns to me and the bitchface turns into wide, sad eyes.

I push the bowl of tortilla chips at him. "Eat a man's food and you won't get called a girl, Samantha." Then I reach out and mess up his hair.

And if my hand drops to my shoulder when I'm done, if it lingers there just long enough for Sam to show his dimples and establish that he was just messing with me the way he usually does, nobody knows but me and Sam and the bartender.

Yeah, that bartender.

When I turn to her she's watching us with an expression that's a mixture of disappointment and _Awwww_ and I don't know whether to groan or laugh. She's pretty, yeah, but I'm not really in the mood tonight, so I wouldn't have been making a move on her anyway. Still, it's a little disturbing.

Sam, despite his complaints, shows no sign of wanting to leave even after he's finished his first beer. I order another for each of us, and two more when those are done.

I'm keeping a watchful eye on Sam all through. It won't hurt him to get drunk, and we're not on a job, but the kid _is _a lightweight and if anything looks like it's starting to stir unpleasant memories, I need to know.

Sam's fine, though. He's never been a particularly troublesome drunk – well, except that one time when he made me promise to kill him, but I suppose I can't blame him for that freak-out. Usually he either gets happy or mopy, depending on how broody he's been that day. One way or another he's quiet and pliant. (Which is just as well; he's way too big for me to be able to control him if he gets _excited _drunk.)

We're on Number Four when I feel someone bump into me from behind. I turn, hoping there isn't going to be a fight.

It's a man – short, but thickset and with an ugly look in his eye.

_Damn it._

Normally I wouldn't back down from a fight – we've been in bar brawls before, and we can hold our own if we have to. But tonight – well, tonight we're finally _good_ again. I'm happy and Sam's happy and I don't want it to end with me putting stitches in Sam after someone cuts him open with the jagged edge of a broken chair.

I nod politely at the man and turn away.

"_Hey_," the guy snarls. "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

"Sorry, man," I say easily, glancing at Sam to warn him not to interfere. "No hard feelings, huh? Let me get you a beer."

"_No hard feelings_?" the guy repeats, looking nastily at Sam. "Scared you'll lose in front of your girlfriend?"

Sam, fortunately, ignores him. I don't think the guy could have gotten a good look, or he'd never have risked pissing the Sasquatch off. Sam's huddled in on himself, making look normal-sized, and the five shirts he's wearing are doing a pretty thorough job of hiding all that muscle. (And I'm pretty sure there's still plenty of it, even if he doesn't work out in the creepy OCD way Robo-Sam used to – back at Singer Salvage, Sam's fist fazed the Leviathan longer than my _gun _did. Of course, that was Sam's _You tried to take my big brother away _fist, but still.)

"Let it go, man," I say, my voice is just a little tighter now. I don't want to get into a fight, but if he lays a finger on Sammy, all bets are off.

"Or what?" he taunts, taking a step closer to Sam. Sam frowns, but I shake my head at him and he's still sober enough to take the hint and stay quiet.

"_Let it go_," I repeat. I'm not seriously worried – the guy doesn't seem to have any friends; if he did they'd've shown up by now – and by himself there's no way he can do us any damage. But, apart from not wanting any unnecessary injuries, I don't think it's a good idea for us to draw attention to ourselves. Not been _that _long since we were on the Wanted list.

"Why?" he sneers. "You scared you can't protect pretty boy in a fight?"

"Let it go," I say, although that last remark struck a little too close to home. "We don't want any trouble."

"You _are _scared." He sounds like a vampire that's scented human blood. "Threw him to the wolves, did you? Let him get hurt?"

At some level I'm a little outraged that we're having another one of _those_ misunderstandings, but my more pressing concern is Sam. He doesn't need me to protect him _physically_ – even high, Sam's more than capable of fighting off _this_ loser – but I'm a little worried about what's going on in his head. He doesn't talk about it much, but I can tell Lucifer's still hanging around and it scares the hell out of me.

"Dude," I say, patience wearing thin. "Get lost."

In a move so sudden even I'm not expecting it, the guy's hands bunch the front of my shirt and he shoves me back against the bar. It's hard enough to make me grunt and it takes my breath away for a minute.

I'm about to push him off, but I sense movement next to me and I wait. I _tried_ to keep the guy from having to go through this, but now that he's insisted on doing it to himself, I might as well relax and enjoy the show. It's not like I get to see it too often.

Sam's putting down his beer bottle. He's high enough to heighten his reactions but not enough to impair his judgement. Certainly not enough to do the guy any serious damage. All the same, this should be fun.

Sam gets to his feet slowly. The guy's hands stay fisted in my shirt but his eyes are on my brother, and I can see his expression change as Sam goes from making himself look smaller than he is to drawing himself up to his full height – and bulk. He knows how to look like an overgrown kid when he wants to – most notably when he wants to get something out of _me_ – but he also knows how to make sure people are aware of every inch and every pound he has on them.

I can see the _guy_ is aware. His eyes widened when Sam started to unfold himself from the barstool, and now they're the size of dinner-plates as he looks up at my brother.

Sam steps closer to me.

The guy stares.

Sam says, "Take your hands off my brother."

"Your _brother_?" the guy stammers, releasing my shirt and taking several hasty steps away. "Oh, your brother, I didn't realize he was your _brother_. I – that is – I didn't realize you knew him. You were – he was just – sorry, dude. Really. I didn't mean –"

He breaks off with a squeak as Sam steps right into his personal space.

Sam grabs the front of his shirt and _lifts_ him so that they're at the same eye-level. I'm impressed: it looks like Sammy _does _have more upper-body strength than I give him credit for.

"Don't come near my brother again."

"No, never," the guy promises, stammering in his hurry to get the words out. "So sorry – huge misunderstanding. I'll never – you won't even see me again, I swear."

"Good," Sam says simply.

Then he walks to the door, still carrying the guy – he's careful, extra-careful because he knows he's a little drunk; doesn't let the guy bump into anything, so he should consider himself lucky. If he'd tried to hurt Sammy, I wouldn't have been as considerate.

Sam drops the guy just outside the door and comes back, ignoring the people who stare at him or sidle away while he passes.

The bartender's trying not to gape when Sam comes back.

He smiles reassuringly at her, sits back down, and takes another sip of his beer.

Like that's the final bit of alcohol needed to push him over the edge into _drunk_, Sam turns the big beagle eyes on me before looking at the bartender.

"This is Dean," Sam announces, scooting his stool closer to mine. "He's my big brother." He leans towards me, and I can't bring myself to push him away. I slide my arm around his shoulders and pull him in. Sam snags a handful of my shirt to orient himself, and then looks at the bartender again. "Dean's my big brother."

The girl shoots me an amused glance as Sam lowers his head to my shoulder. "Maybe your big brother's going to decide you need to switch to water for the rest of the evening."

It's a sign of how buzzed Sam is that he doesn't immediately protest that he can pick his own freaking drinks, thank you. He just turns as much towards her as he can without raising his head and says, "Dean always takes care of me."

The bartender's eyes flicker to the door, where the short guy has picked himself up and is peeking in to see if Sam's distracted.

"He's a lightweight," I offer in explanation, rubbing Sam's shoulder. "Always has been."

She chuckles. "Yeah, I can see that. You should take him home."

I smile at her. "Thanks, I think I will."

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	9. On the Job

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Duh.

**AN:** Not quite sure what I said in the review replies since I was more than half asleep… Really, _really _sorry if I said anything weird to anyone. ;-)

Thanks to Klutzygirl33, Adrian Nox, ThePinkyPop, SandyDee84, BerrySPNFMA, SPN Mum, doyleshuny, twomoms, CeCe Away, nupinoop296, scootersmom, primadonna cat, BranchSuper, stelldelnordxd, judyann, Eavis, Hunnique, godsdaughter77, Jane88, Shannanigans, criminally charmed, d767468, Scribble2Much and Likaella for the reviews.

Thanks to Cheryl, for everything.

**Summary: **Tag to 7.08, _Season Seven,_ _Time for a Wedding. _Sammy all tied up, Becky and Garth and Big Brother Dean. That's all.

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><p><strong>On the Job<strong>

We – and have you any idea how _weird _it is to have the other half of "we" not include Sam? – pull up outside the cabin. It's the same one as in the picture, but it looks like it's empty, and for a moment I wonder if I was wrong about Becky bringing Sam here.

Then I hear, "Cut me loose and call Dean! Now!" bellowed from the inside, and it's Sammy's voice, and that's awesome because, first, it means we're at the right place, second, it means whatever she did to Sam has worn off so we won't have any crap about how she's the perfect woman for him, and, third (and this is the least important reason, I _swear_), we're clearly done with the stuff about how he doesn't need me anymore (and I'd be willing to bet a week's worth of picking the music that Sam's going to want to have a chick-flick moment about it as soon as we're done toasting the demon).

Garth looks mildly impressed. "Your brother can _yell_."

"_Yeah_," I say fervently. "And it's not that awesome when you're on the receiving end of it."

And then I register what Sam said.

_Cut me loose and call Dean._

Cut him _loose_? Meaning what? He's tied up? How the hell did a half-pint like _Becky_ manage to get Megatron incapacitated enough to tie him up?

What the hell did she _do _to him?

OK. That's it. Fun's over.

_She hurt my baby brother._

"Dude?" Garth asks, but I'm no longer listening. Sammy just told Becky to call me, and although she hasn't done it _yet_ – Seriously, how hard _is _it? If Sam tells you to call me, you don't argue and you don't ask questions, you just _do _it and let me take over. Considering how many of those stupid books she's read, you'd think she would _know _that by now.

I kick in the door.

There's sudden, dead silence.

Then Sam yells, "Dean?"

"Sam!" I shout back.

"_Dean!_" Then there's the sound of a scuffle and _then _I can't hear Sam anymore, and, honestly, if Becky wants to commit suicide there are easier ways.

I'm in what looks like a living room, and Sam's voice was coming from the other side of a door opposite.

I kick that door in too, because anyone who kidnaps Sam deserves to have some _serious_ repair bills.

Then I stop to stare.

Sam's hogtied to a bed. _Hogtied_, and there's something stuffed in his mouth that he's trying unsuccessfully to spit out.

"Sammy? You OK?"

Sam mumbles something through the gag. I reach down to check for broken bones before I untie him, and he squeals – _literally _– around the cloth in his mouth and squirms away.

"He… uh, he doesn't have his pants," Becky says, and _that _explains why my brother is covered in a disturbingly floral sheet.

Of course, it also raises an even more disturbing question.

"Did you –"

"I didn't _touch _him."

Sam tries to say something. I pull the cloth out of his mouth. He coughs, trying to get his breath, and I frown when I see just how much of the material Becky had stuffed in.

"Are you _insane_?" I ask her. "I mean, more than just normal freaky Becky insane? He could've choked on this!"

"She _gagged _me," Sam says sadly.

I look down at him. The eyes are on full force, trained on me like I have the answer to everything. My blood runs cold for a second – _is he really hurt? _– but then I figure out what he wants and I can't prevent a grim inward chuckle. Sam's had a hard few days, with whatever that demon did to him to make him believe he was in love with Becky, and he deserves a bit of fun.

"Did she?" I ask sympathetically, dropping to the edge of the bed.

Sam nods, slowly and sorrowfully, and even though I _know_ he's faking most of it, I can't help wondering if there's a tiny part of him that _isn't _faking. Spending hours gagged and bound hand and foot… Who knows what memories that brought back?

That thought hardens my resolve. I pat Sam's knee and get to my feet.

"So," I say, walking slowly around the bed to Becky, "you tied my brother up."

"She gagged me."

"And gagged him."

"She roofied me."

I pause to glance at Sam. "Love potion, huh?"

"Elixir," Becky corrects, and, seriously, is the woman _stupid_? "It was an elixir and it didn't do him any _harm_."

"He thought he was in love with you."

"He must be, deep down, or the Elixir wouldn't work."

"Really? Which bubblegum witch doctor told you that?"

I close in on Becky, getting right in her personal space. I don't usually try to loom over people, partly because guns are more my style, partly because trying to loom when Mr. I-forgot-to-stop-growing is next to you is enough to give anyone an inferiority complex.

But this is the woman who kidnapped, roofied and hogtied my brother.

And gagged him, which seems to be the part that hurt Sam the most. Figures that he'd be more upset that she prevented him from _talking_ than that he's tied to her bed, apparently without pants.

So, yeah. I can loom.

I loom, and Becky cowers, and I smile.

"You roofied my little brother," I tell her. "And you know all about us. You know what happens to people who – _hurt – my – brother_."

"I didn't –"

"You knocked me out with Dean's waffle iron!" Sam protests.

Hold on.

She _what_?

"Head injury?" I demand, turning to Sam.

Sam's eyes widen, like he's just realizing what he said, and he shakes his head quickly. "Dean, no –"

"Concussion?"

"Dean –"

"I checked him for concussion," Becky says helpfully. "He didn't tell me how many fingers I was holding up. But I think he was just being stubborn?"

He _what_?

"_Sam?_"

"I'm fine." I ignore Sam, because yeah _right _I'm going to take his word for it, sit on the edge of the bed and peer into his eyes. "Dean." Pupils equally dilated. "Dean, I'm fine." I pull my flashlight from my pocket and shine it in his eyes. "_Dean!_"

Sam's OK. Not concussed.

"And… You know, _upstairs_?" I ask. "The knock didn't jolt loose any wiring, did it?"

"Very funny," Sam says. "I'm OK, Dean. Just…" he wiggles his wrists meaningfully.

"Yeah," I say, straightening. "Only brought Ruby's knife, though, and I'm not risking nicking you with that. Hey!" I turn to Garth. "Go find a normal knife."

"What are you going to do?"

"What I usually do to people who hurt my brother," I explain.

"Can I watch?"

"_Get. A. Knife._"

Garth disappears. I turn my attention back to Becky.

"So. You hit Sam on the head."

"I –"

"Despite knowing what happened to him, what he _did_, what he's _going through_, you hit him on the _head_."

"I didn't –"

"_And you did it with my present._"

"Dean," Sam says. "I'm –"

"If you say you're OK, Sammy, I'm going to leave you here with the lunatic." The reasonable expression vanishes from Sam's face, and the eyes come back. "Oh, shut the hell up, Sam!"

"I didn't say anything."

"Be quiet and let me deal with this." I look at Becky. "So… Let's make sure I've got everything straight. You roofied my brother, got him to marry you while he was under the influence – _without _my permission, by the way – I'm not saying _you _need my permission to get married to someone, Sam," I add, when Sam bitchfaces at me. "I'm just saying other people need my permission to marry you. Anyway, where were we, Becky? Yeah, you kidnapped my brother, lied to me, lied to me some more, hit him on the head with my being-supportive present, brought him here, took his pants, hogtied him and gagged him." Garth comes back with a breadknife, and I take a moment to nod my thanks before I ask Becky, "Am I missing anything? You didn't touch him while you were –"

"_Dean!_" Sam protests.

"_No!_" Becky insists.

"Dude," Garth says, "have you seen the size of your brother? You really think other people can molest _him_?"

"Shut up, Sam. Becky, I hope for your sake that you're telling the truth. Garth, I'm only going to say this once – don't mess with me about Sammy. Becky, I – dude, _what the hell_?"

Garth, who'd been leaning over Sam with the knife, stops and looks from my brother's terrified face to my furious one.

"Chill. I was just going to cut him loose."

"You were…" He was going to make Sam remember something horrible, that's what he was going to do. Being trussed up like a turkey's probably bad enough on its own without having a scrawny freak lean over him with a serrated blade. "Get out, get _her _out, and let me do that." Garth opens his mouth to argue. "Don't. Give me the knife and _go_."

He goes.

Becky goes.

I sit on the edge of the bed and put the knife down on the table. "Hey. Just me, Sam." Sam calms a little when I squeezed his shoulder, more when I smooth down his hair. "We'll take it nice and slow, OK? Just cutting the rope. The knife's not going to be anywhere near you." I pause. "Ready?"

Sam nods.

"OK." I pick up the knife and move down to his foot. "Focus on me, Sam. It's fine." I start sawing at the rope. "You're fine. I'm here. Stone number one, remember?" The rope gives and I move to the other foot.

Sam pales a little when I start to free his hands, the knife that close to his face, but he settles down when I pat his shoulder.

A couple of minutes later, I'm helping him to his feet. He's clutching the sheet around himself, shaky after having been tied up that long, but he's standing, and he has the chick-flick moment look in his eyes. I think he might actually have tried to hug me if his hands hadn't been occupied holding up the sheet.

"Dean…"

"Yeah, I know. The things I do for you, huh?"

"Thanks," Sam says quietly. "Dean, you…"

"What, kiddo?"

"You're awesome. And I –"

"Hey," I say lightly, inexpressible relieved that he's on his feet, talking and lucid after that Elixir crap messing with his mind and Becky almost giving him a concussion. "Later, OK? Once we've ganked the demon."

Sam smiles. "OK."

"C'mon, kiddo. You need your pants, because otherwise it's going to take us weeks to find another pair that's made for giraffe legs, and then we need to talk to them. I think my sister-in-law might be able to help us out here."

"_Dean!_"

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? You hate this series? Please review!<p> 


	10. How to Let Go

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Author's Note:** I'll be honest: for a long time, I thought I wasn't going to be able to tag _How to Win Friends_. But then _this _came to me, so here it is… With any luck (and a decent episode this week) I'll make it to hiatus without having missed a single tag.

Thanks to Cheryl for being encouraging, and to SandyDee84 for not giving up on the suggestions. *g*

Thanks to the people who reviewed the last chapter: Klutzygirl33, Katy M VT, hotshow, ThePinkyPop, stelladelnordxd, doyleshuny, nupinoop296, BerrySPNFMA, scootersmom, Phoenix80hp, twomoms, d767468, SPN Mum, Eavis, SandyDee84, giacinta, Twinchester Angel, Jane88, judyann, BranchSuper, Too Many Screennames, Scribble2Much, Starfan1245, Likaella and CeCe Away.

**Summary:** Tag to 7.09, _How to Win Friends and Influence Monsters_. Dean's high. Dean talks.

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><p><strong>How to Let Go<strong>

I snapped the laptop shut and went to check on Dean.

Bobby and I had hauled him to the bedroom he and I were sharing and left him there inside a Devil's Trap, a circle of salt, and, because we wouldn't recognize our lives unless the weirdness factor kept rising, a ring of borax. (I know, I know, a ring of borax wouldn't stop a Leviathan – the thing would just step over it. Still, when you're a hunter you get used to trying just about anything on the off-chance that it _might _work.)

Dean was _supposed _to be sleeping it off, but when I went in he was awake. He was sitting up in bed, staring dreamily off into the distance.

"Hot waitress?" I asked.

Dean looked startled. He hadn't heard me come in. "Sam?"

"Feeling any better?"

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

I frowned. Evidently he _wasn't _feeling better, if talking like he was in a teen movie was any indication. "What do you mean?"

"You said the turducken was turning me into an idiot."

"Oh." I walked up to the bed. "Well, the fact that I said it was _turning _you into an idiot means that I thought you had to be _turned _into an idiot, which means that I thought you _weren't _an idiot before. Right?"

"You should've been a lawyer," Dean grumbled. "So you think I'm an idiot _now_?"

"No, Dean." I sat on the edge of the bed. "I don't think you're an idiot now. A stupid, annoying, infuriating jerk, yes, but not an idiot. Happy?"

"How is being stupid different from being an idiot?"

And _I _should've been a lawyer?

"What's wrong with you?" I asked. "The goo is supposed to send you to a happy place, not…" I waved a hand at him. "Not _this_."

"Not what?"

"Not cross-questioning me about whether I think you're an idiot. You're not supposed to care about anything right now."

"You always were my exception to everything," Dean said. Then he lowered his head. "You should go."

"What, all of a sudden you don't want me around?"

"_Please._ I can't – I don't know what I'm going to say right now, Sam. I _shouldn't_ care about anything, but I _do_, at least about you – no Leviathan goo can stop me from doing that. And I don't care what I say or…"

Dean trailed off and fidgeted with his jacket.

"Dean, if there's something you want to tell me –"

"I don't want you to grow up," Dean said in a rush. "I mean – yeah, I do – because if you're grown up you can take care of yourself and kids can't beat you up –"

"Kids haven't beaten me up for _years_, Dean."

Dean went right on as though I hadn't interrupted. "And that's important, you're the size of a moose, like Crowley said, and you're as strong as a moose, so I'm pretty sure you're safe from most, you know, most _normal _stuff. And that's good, Sammy, it _really_ is. But I don't – I don't want you to outgrow –"

"_Hey_," I said forcefully, not letting Dean finish the sentence. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm never going to outgrow you."

"You sure about that?"

I stared at Dean. "Seriously? Are you _trying_ to start a chick-flick moment here?"

"Not my fault," Dean muttered. "I'm high." Then he jabbed an accusing finger at my chest. "When _you _were high you said you loved me."

"You're my brother."

"You said that too."

"What's your point, Dean?"

"It's your job." He nodded vigorously. "Starting chick-flick moments. It's _your _job, and you're not doing it. You can't blame me for that. And, dude, I wouldn't even be able to _discuss_ this with you if I weren't this blissed out, so we're lucky I ate the turducken."

"If you can say the word _turducken_, you're obviously not that high."

"I'm not high," Dean muttered. "_You're _high. That's why you're forcing me to have this conversation. Bitch."

I tried not to sigh, because if I sigh every time Dean doesn't make sense, I'll spend my time doing pretty much nothing else. "OK, Dean. Just tell me what you want and we'll do that."

"You're going to listen to me?"

"Don't get used to it. It's only because you're high on Leviathan goo."

"That's gross, Sammy."

"It _is _gross, and you _ate _it."

"I didn't know it was Leviathan goo."

"It was gross even when it _wasn't _Leviathan goo."

Dean didn't answer that. He leaned back and shut his eyes. He was still for so long I thought he'd fallen asleep, but when I got to my feet he said, "Don't go."

"You need to rest."

"I _am _rested. I'm completely at peace. Almost."

"Dean –"

"I just need to ask you something, Sam. Then you can go shoot Leviathans. Or, you know, borax them. Whatever."

I hesitated. We didn't have time, because who knew what the things were doing, or – more importantly – whether they were onto us and this was a trap. I had work to do.

But Dean was looking at me pleadingly, and I didn't have the heart to turn him down. "OK." I sat back down. "What is it?"

Dean grinned, surveying me with satisfaction. "I did a good job."

"_What?_" I demanded, feeling like I was in a weird drug-induced dream. (And, believe me, I know _all _about those.)

"Bringing you _up_," Dean said, like it should have been obvious. "I did a good job. You're the biggest pushover in the world. Means I did something right. That's how it works, right, Sam?"

(Just for the record, I am _not _a pushover. It's just that, you know, it was _Dean_. It was always much harder for me to say no to Dean than to Dad.)

"Sure, Dean," I said, placating. "You did a good job."

"You really think so?"

"You know I do. Dean, what the hell is wrong with you? The funny burgers weren't supposed to turn you into a girl. Are you sure you didn't eat or drink anything else that Bobby and I didn't?"

"You cared about Amy," Dean said, making me wonder why he was bringing _that _up again. "I know you did. And you had a hard time letting go of that."

"Dean –"

"I'm not blaming you, Sammy. She saved your life. Of course you cared about her. You care about people even when they _don't _save you. It's the kind of person you are. I'm just saying… think about how much you cared about her."

"OK," I said slowly.

"And now remember that she wasn't your kid, you didn't bring her up, you didn't teach her to walk, she didn't bring you her test scores to see, and you haven't spent years being proud of the woman she's become even when you couldn't bring yourself to say so to her."

"_Dean –_"

"I'm sorry," Dean said quietly. "I'm trying, Sam. I really am. I know that you're your own person now and I need to let you go. It's just… I'll need some time."

He wasn't meeting my eyes anymore. I was startled and a little horrified – I'd had no idea that Dean would take that comment about him not needing to watch me all the time _this _way. In retrospect, I should've known, because Dean _always _takes things _this _way, but I suppose I'd hoped that he'd finally stopped worrying that I was going to up and leave.

"Dean," I got out, when he _finally _let me get more than one word in. "Shut the hell up."

"Sam, I understand."

"You don't understand anything." I scooted closer to him. "Dean, I want – God, I want you to do something for _yourself_, something _you _want to do, but that doesn't mean I don't need you. You're my big brother. You're the _reason _I'm still here. You're the reason I let myself remember Hell – because it was the only way to come back to _you_."

"What are you talking about?"

"After Cas broke the Wall. I was trapped in my head and the only way out was to take the memories back. It's not important –"

"_Sam._"

"Dean. I mean it. What's important is that I'm here and we're in this, whatever it is, together."

"But you said you didn't need me," Dean said, sounding almost _heartbroken_.

I grabbed him, pulling him into a hug before he could protest. If he _hadn't _been high on the Leviathan ooze, he probably wouldn't have cooperated, so I suppose it was good for _something_.

"She roofied me," I murmured. "I was doped, Dean. I had no idea what I was saying. You're my big brother. There's no way I'm ever going to stop needing you."

"But you're grown up now," Dean protested, pushing ineffectually against my chest. Like he was going to be able to get away.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I'm grown up, so you don't have to tie my shoelaces anymore. I still need you."

"You can take care of yourself."

"You're not hearing me," I said. "I need you. Not to take care of me. I need you because you're my brother and I like being around you even when you're being a jerk. I need you because I _want _to need you." Dean sighed. I held him tighter. "I came _back _for you, Dean."

He sighed again, happily, this time, as he snuggled (_yes, _Dean, you _snuggled_) into my arms.

"Sammy?"

"What?"

"I am totally going to deny this conversation when I'm sober."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Dean."

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	11. Different and the Same

**Author's Note:** Hands up everyone who thought I was going to let this one go. ;-)

I always _was _planning to tag this, but I've been busy, so I didn't get around to writing the tag until a couple of days ago. Thanks to Cheryl for doing a super-fast review and helping make sure I had the full set for the first half of the season.

I hope you guys enjoy this. I don't think I'll be putting anything else on this series until after the hiatus, so Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! (And if you're reading _In Libris Libertas_, don't panic – I _will _be updating that regularly.)

Thanks to my wonderful reviewers: Katy M VT, CeCe Away, nupinoop296, jafreckleslover, sammynanci, cookjar, SPN Mum, judyann, BerrySPNFMA, doyleshuny, criminally charmed, scootersmom, Eavis, Lamarquise, stelladelnordxd, Likaella, SandyDee84, ThePinkyPop, Scribble2Much, twomoms, Twinchester Angel and BranchSuper.

**Summary:** Waiting in the hospital, Sam's having a much harder time fending Lucifer off.

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><p><strong>Different and the Same<strong>

It was _that_ tone from the heart monitor that did it.

It brought on the memories like a flood. 10:41. Lucifer. Lucifer making me relive 10:41 over and over, telling me that if I'd made the deal with Azazel before Dad could, Dean might never have gone to Hell and the Apocalypse might never have happened. Lucifer looking at me through Dean's eyes and teasing me with Dean's voice and methodically snapping my bones with the same hands that I was used to feeling in my hair when I was sick.

Dean was across the room. He hadn't said anything, but I knew he was close to breaking. He needed Bobby as a father-figure even more than I did. I had Dean.

I slipped away from the waiting room. I felt Dean's eyes on me as I went, but he didn't try to stop me. Maybe he thought I was just going to the bathroom or to the vending machine down the hall. Maybe he didn't care where I was going.

I wasn't alone, though. Lucifer was with me.

"You see?" he gloated, keeping pace with me as I walked down the hall. "Bobby Singer, too. I'm impressed, Sam. Even _I _haven't caused as much devastation in my family as you have."

"Shut up."

"Fighting words. But you have to admit, Sam, your track record is… unique."

I opened the nearest door, because I _really_ needed to get away from this. It was marked _Personnel Only_, but when has something like that ever stopped me?

I found myself in a supply room. There was a man there – the dude was _tiny_, even shorter than Dean. (Well, if you didn't want to be the standard for _short_, you should've eaten your spinach, Dean!) He – the dude, not Dean – frowned at me.

"You shouldn't be in here."

I know there was an appropriate response to that – _I'm sorry_ would have been good, or _I was looking for the men's room_. But my brain right then my brain was Swiss cheese, and all that stuff I'd told Dean about knowing my way around the hallucinations was turning into a lie because I could hear Lucifer and I could _feel_ his words seeping into my soul.

"I need a scalpel."

Because digging my thumb into my now perfectly healthy hand wasn't working anymore. Because I needed to take care of this myself instead of bothering Dean with it. Because there was only one thing I could think of to stop the hallucinations even temporarily – well, there _was _another thing, but I didn't think asking Dean to repeat the _Stone Number One_ speech would go down very well right then.

"Why?" the guy asked suspiciously.

I still had it together enough to know that saying _To cut my hand so I don't hallucinate Lucifer_ would probably get me a bed in the psych ward.

Unfortunately, I _didn't _have it together enough to come up with a reasonable explanation.

Lucifer laughed. "You _see_? He already knows you're crazy. If I'd known it would work this well, I'd have done this to you long ago, Sammy. It's so much more interesting than watching you writhe and beg when Dean is tying you down to the rack for me."

I'm not quite sure what happened next. I probably just grabbed a scalpel and dug it into my hand. I remember that there was sudden, sharp pain, followed by the welcome absence of Lucifer. Someone was freaking out, making a lot of noise and then there were a _lot_ of people freaking out and making even more noise. Then it all goes fuzzy – not bad memory fuzzy, but morphine-in-the-IV fuzzy – for a while.

The next thing I knew, I was blinking up at Dean.

Dean looked scared.

"Sammy?" he asked as soon as he saw my eyes were open. "Oh, thank God. They said you were going to be fine, and they had you in surgery before you lost too much blood, but… Are you OK?"

I tried to say Dean's name, but all that came out was an embarrassing whimper. Dean squeezed my shoulder.

"It's OK. Don't try to talk." I tried to reach for Dean, but something held me back. Dean shook his head. "They have you on suicide watch – hey. _Hey._ Calm down, Sammy. It's OK. I know you weren't trying to kill yourself. I'll bust you out just as soon as we know about Bobby."

_Oh God._

_Bobby._

I felt a horrible welling-up of guilt. I'd screwed up, and dragged Dean away from Bobby when he probably really needed –

"_Hey_," Dean said sharply. "_No. _It's OK, Sammy. They're not telling us anything about Bobby right now anyway. A nurse will come here as soon as they know something, and then we'll get you a wheelchair and we'll _both_ go visit him, OK?"

"Dean," I said, getting the word out this time. Dean grinned at me.

"See? You sound better already."

"Sorry."

"You should be." Dean's voice hardened a little. "You know how I _felt_ when they came and told me they'd sedated you and put you on suicide watch? And we were lucky that one of the attendants _remembered _seeing us together." I felt warm, reassuring fingers close around my wrist. "I know why you did it, and I'm not mad you did, but you should've told me you were having trouble, Sammy. I would've helped you deal with it."

"Too much," I mumbled.

"Too much? Too much what? Too much to expect you to tell me?"

I shook my head. Trust Dean to get it ass-backwards every time. Big brothers are so _stupid_.

"You… too much." I took a deep breath. "Too much to deal with."

"Oh." Dean's voice had hardened a lot more. "I have too much to deal with, so you decided that I didn't need to know you were having problems. Is that it?"

I swallowed. _Yes_ was obviously the wrong answer.

"_Sam?_" Dean said. "_Is that it? _And don't lie to me."

"Kind of," I said as softly as I could.

All the anger vanished from Dean's face. He just looked distressed, and that made me feel even worse. I could deal with Dean angry, but Dean like this – quiet and miserable – was just too much.

"Dean, please –"

"Shhh," Dean interrupted. "Don't get upset, Sam. If one of your monitors starts beeping they'll throw me out." I felt a warm hand on my ribs. "I guess it's kind of my fault, too. I should've been watching."

"Dean –"

"But that's going to change," Dean interrupted again. He clearly didn't intend to let me get even one sentence out. "I'll stop feeling guilty about stuff that happens to you if _you _promise to tell me when something's wrong."

I felt a little disorientated. Had the world inverted itself while I wasn't looking? Dean was _asking _to talk?

"I've had some time," Dean said, correctly interpreting my silence. "You've been out of it, and I've been sitting here, and I had some time to think. I don't… I don't know what's going to happen to Bobby, Sam. I _hope _he'll be OK. I don't know. And if he dies, it'll be horrible, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to be there for you." I stared. Dean gave me a tiny smile. "Hey," he said lightly. "We got through it when Dad died."

As though that last sentence was some kind of catalyst, I felt the tears welling up.

"Hey, _no_!" Dean said quickly. "I didn't mean to – come on, Sammy, _don't_." I couldn't stop the sobs. I heard people hurrying into the room and voices, and I just _knew_ they were going to make Dean leave.

I grabbed his sleeve.

I saw the doctor getting ready to give me a shot of morphine. I looked pleadingly at Dean. There was a lot of yelling, and I couldn't _breathe, _and then the soft restraints on my wrists were being loosened and I was being pulled upright.

"Just settle down," Dean said. "Settle down and they won't give you the morphine."

He pulled my hand off his sleeve and pushed my head down onto his chest.

"_Dean –_"

"Yeah. Right here. Shut up."

The combination of Dean's heartbeat and Dean's breathing and Dean's voice soon had me relaxing. After a few more minutes and a flashlight in my eyes, the hospital staff left.

"OK, kiddo?" Dean asked, sitting on the bed without letting me go.

"Sorry."

"Talk to me, Sam."

"Couldn't get rid of him."

"Lucifer?"

"Yeah… And you… You need Bobby. More." I ducked my head, because I couldn't look Dean in the eye and say this. "I have _you_."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "you do have me, and you always will. But I know you care about Bobby, and I've got you, too. I've probably got you _more _than you have me, because you're a girl and you like to talk. So why would you think I need Bobby more?" I shook my head, because if Dean didn't know, how was I supposed to _explain _it? "Sam?"

"I love Bobby," I said finally, still not looking up. "I _do_. But you don't have anyone else to… you know… You always take care of me."

Dean sighed. "Sam, you're an idiot."

"You're a jerk."

"You're a bitch." He drew back and pushed my head up, forcing me to look at him. "Seriously, Sammy, that's what you think? That having an awesome big brother means you don't get to be as upset about Bobby?"

"I don't –"

"Because that's the dumbest thing I've heard in my life. Sure you've got an awesome big brother – not arguing with that – but I've got something you haven't got. I have a little brother who thinks I'm awesome."

"I don't think you're awesome," I murmured half-heartedly.

"Sure you don't." Dean rolled his eyes. "Promise me you'll tell me when you need help, Sammy."

"Yeah."

"You promise?" Dean repeated inexorably.

I couldn't help smiling at him. "_Yes_, Dean. I promise."

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	12. Smile

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Author's Note:** Welcome back. ;-)

For reviews, thanks to Katy M VT, nupinoop296, scootersmom, hotshow, CeCe Away, Phoenix80hp, Eavis, stelladelnordxd, twomom, BranchSuper, doyleshuny, judyann, criminally charmed, giacinta, ThePinkyPop, Likaella, Jane88, BerrySPNFMA, Twinchester Angel, Scribble2Much, SanaH05 and sammynanci.

Thanks to Cheryl for all the help.

For anyone following _In Libris Libertas_, next update should be tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy this.

**Summary: **Sam didn't get bitten twice without _some _consequences… So now Dean has time to think. Tag to 7.11, _Adventures in Babysitting_.

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><p><strong>Smile<strong>

It was stupid, thinking we'd get off so easy. I think, deep down, I knew that. At some level, I knew that saying goodbye to Krissy, knowing she was going to college and going to get out and have something resembling normal, knowing that her dad cared about her enough to get out for her sake, was too good to be true. At least in our screwed-up lives.

So, you know. Other shoe.

Which, our lives being what they are, was Sam.

I don't know what I was thinking, not getting him checked over. I _knew _he wouldn't have gone down without a fight. I knew they'd likely fed on him more than once. I should've known that he wasn't as 'fine' as he was pretending to be.

Well… I _did_ know. I wasn't _consciously _aware of it, because I'd spent the last God-knows-how-many hours frantic with worry that I didn't dare show, seeing horrible visions of stumbling into the vetalas' hidey-hole just in time for Sammy to die in my arms – _again_. Finding Sam alive and well enough to stab the monster made me so numb with relief that I could barely think. That, and trying to do that _smiling _thing Frank had recommended proved to be a lot harder than I imagined.

But the part of me that's tuned to Sam must've known he was faking, because, without actually deciding to be nice, I turned the radio down when his steady breathing told me he'd fallen asleep, and when we stopped for gas I got a blanket out of the trunk and flung it over him.

Sue me. It was a cold day and I didn't want to deal with a hypothermic little brother on top of everything else.

I first suspected something was wrong when I made a hard swerve to avoid a deer that leaped out of the bushes a few feet in front of me and Sam didn't stir – although he did knock his head on the windowpane.

"Sammy?" I thumped his denim-clad knee. "Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Your turn to drive."

Sam muttered something incomprehensible and tugged the blanket closer around himself. That scared me a bit, because Sam's both an insomniac (even the I-feel-good-now-Dean version of my brother that I'd been seeing for the past few weeks slept less than normal human beings) and a light sleeper.

"Sam?" I shook him. There was no response, but even through his fourteen layers of shirts I could feel that his skin was alarmingly hot. "_Sam!_"

I drove really fast.

I didn't take Sam to a hospital, because who the hell knew which places were Leviathan-free anymore? I wouldn't be able to stay with him in a hospital, they'd tell me to back off and let the doctors do their job – like _doctors_ know more about fixing Sam than I do – and roll him through those double doors and then I wouldn't see him for hours.

Not. Happening.

I don't really know what I was feeling. Normally Sam hurt would kick-start a litany of _Sammy no Sammy no_ in my head, but right then I was still too numb. I knew, vaguely, that I didn't have a freaking clue whether it was just blood loss or whether there was something in the thing's venom – Krissy's dad had been OK, but maybe it didn't affect everyone the same way. I knew, vaguely, that Sam might die, and that if he did, life would stop having any meaning.

I knew, even more vaguely, that if Sam died, I'd only wait to cremate him before my gun went in my mouth.

I knew all that, but I couldn't feel anything. I was floating outside my body and this was happening to someone else. That the universe could hate me _this _much was a little too much to take in. It was too much to believe that, _again_, Sammy might get taken away from me. So I just… didn't take it in.

And I smiled.

I drove, and in minutes I saw an exit. I pulled off the highway and stopped at the first motel I saw that didn't look like it would collapse on top of us.

I left Sam in the car, although the part of me that could still feel was making my gut churn at the thought of leaving Sammy alone in any car other than the Impala. But it was either that or try to wake him up enough to take him in with me and then explain to whoever was at the desk that the giant geek I was holding up was my _brother_ and we wanted two singles.

I went in alone, paid the advance on the room, drove as close to the door as I could, and manhandled Sam inside. He opened his eyes a little, but he was too out of it to help.

I left him on his bed and went back for our bags, the first-aid kit and the blanket.

"OK, Sammy," I said, as brightly as I could, when I got back. "Time to get up, dude. I have to talk to you." Sam was out again. I sat on the edge of the bed and shook him. "Come _on_, Sam. I've never treated anyone for vetala poisoning before."

I still felt detached, like this was happening to someone else. It was weird, but it was probably good, because it meant I could focus on helping Sam and not on the stuttering, horrified thumping of my own heart. And, you know, I could keep trying to smile.

"_Sam._"

Sam opened his eyes a crack.

"_Dean._"

"Hey. I know you're tired but I need you to listen to me, OK, Sammy? How long did they have you?"

"Dean," Sam said again, drowsily. "Tired."

Realizing that I wasn't going to be getting a cogent response out of my brother, I tried more forcefully. "_Hey. _Listen to me. Just answer yes or no, OK? How long did they have you? Two days?" Pause. "More than two days?"

Sam made a muffled grunting noise that I recognized as agreement.

"How much more, Sammy?"

"_Dean_," Sam protested, with the inflection that meant _I'm tired and I'm hurting and you're cross-questioning me_.

"OK," I said, absently brushing his hair off his forehead. "Yeah, OK. And they fed on you. It's usually four doses of the poison that's fatal, right? _Sam?_"

Sam made the acquiescent sound again.

"Sam, pay attention. This is important. How many times did they tap you?"

Sam mumbled something that I could identify as _Two_.

"OK." I ruffled his hair absently and then smoothed it down again. "Did _you _eat anything while you were there? Or drink anything?" Sam made a face, and I sighed. "Fine. So there's blood loss, venom, dehydration, _and _the fact that that Megatron body of yours is running on empty. Anything else I should know about?"

"Dean," Sam said, and that one was _How the hell should I know, jerk?_

"I saw a vending machine outside," I told him. "I'm getting you something with lots of sugar, and you're going to drink it without telling me about cavities, and then you're going to get some sleep. OK?"

"Dean," Sam mumbled, this time in tired agreement.

"Fine." I got to my feet. "I won't be gone long – it's right here. And I'll leave the door open so I can see you all the time. And you can see me, if you bother to look."

Sam was asleep – or unconscious – again by the time I was back with Gatorade.

But now we were in familiar territory. I could handle _this _without thinking about it. I woke Sam up again, helped him sit propped against me, and held the bottle to his lips, ignoring his attempts to take it from me. Sick Sammy was a lot more compliant than badass hunter Sammy: he nestled his head under my chin, sipped the Gatorade, and was generally less of a pain in the ass than he ever is while conscious.

"That's it," I said lightly. "What about the poison? You _sure _it was only twice, Sam?"

"Not an idiot," Sam muttered petulantly.

"Yeah, I know." Sam shook his head when I offered him the bottle again. I held it up – half gone. Better than I'd expected. "OK, kiddo. Naptime."

Sam protested, but it was obvious that it was just for show, so I settled him down pulled the blankets up around him and told him to go to sleep before I knocked him out.

When he was sleeping, I _finally _relaxed.

And that was when it hit me.

Sam could have died.

My baby brother could have _died_.

The misery tearing through my gut at the idea of that wasn't anything like how I felt when Cas turned against us or Bobby got shot by Dick. Cas was my best friend, until he decided to destroy my brother's mind as a _diversion_. Bobby was the closest thing I had to a father.

But Sammy was Sammy. Losing him would've been the one thing I couldn't recover from.

I sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Sam was going to be fine. He _was_. It had only tapped him twice, and a great big lug like him could probably survive a higher dose of the venom than normal-sized people anyway. He was just tired.

I tried that smiling thing again, but smiling and thinking about losing Sammy don't happen in the same universe, so I gave up after a minute or two. I'm not sure when I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was twisted awkwardly, half-sitting, half-slumped. My back ached like a bitch.

I sighed. Awesome. _Exactly_ what I needed. Even freaking Pollyanna couldn't smile through _this_.

Then I registered the weight on my shoulder. I reached up, and, sure enough, Sam had found a way to put his stupid big head there, and now his hair was tickling my chin.

_Dork._

He was still feverish, although his temperature had gone down.

Sam stirred. For a moment, a fraction of a second when he was probably utterly disorientated, he snuggled closer to me. Then he stiffened.

"Dean!"

I was _not _disappointed when Sam pulled away and sat up.

"You OK, kiddo?"

"Yeah." Sam saw my look and shrugged. "I _am_. I mean, I have a headache, but _that _isn't new, and otherwise… You know. I'll live. You got to me in time."

Huh. I'd never have imagined those words would sound so… incredible.

"I guess so." I reached out to check Sam for fever, and ruffled his hair before he could move away. "I got to you in time," I repeated.

And this time it was no effort to smile.

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review.<p>

Also… Tag to 7.12 should be up fairly soon. That's going to be a lot lighter, because we need a break from the angst.


	13. How to Clothe Your Sasquatch

**Author's Note:** I only have one thing to say: welcome back. ;-)

For reviews to the last chapter, my gratitude to judyann, hotshow, CeCe Away, ThePinkyPop, twomoms, SPN Mum, BerrySPNFMA, nupinoop296, Twinchester Angel, SandyDee84, Eavis, supernaturaldh, criminally charmed, BranchSuper, scootersmom, PutMoneyInThyPurse, Jane88, sammynanci, doyleshuny, Likaella, giacinta, Scribble2Much, godsdaughter77, TinTin11 and TrisakAminawn.

Thanks to Cheryl for patient reading and listening.

And now…

**Disclaimer:** If I owned the boys, I wouldn't anymore because Dean would've killed me for being mean to Sam.

**Summary:** Sam needs a jacket. Unfortunately, Sam's bigger than the average person. What's a big brother to do?

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><p><strong>How to Clothe Your Sasquatch<strong>

I blame Sheriff Mills.

Don't get me wrong. Jodie Mills is a wonderful woman, and I am _very _grateful to her for coming over and making sure Sam didn't freak out and forcing him to eat. She even came close to forcing him to sleep, which nobody other than me has ever been able to do, so, yeah, grateful.

What was _not _cool was suggesting that I don't know how to take care of my brother.

The morning after all the excitement, I was eating eggs and toast and _fruit_, because apparently Sheriff Mills is just like Sam when it comes to people's arteries. And _unlike _Sam, she's not my little brother and so I can't bully her into giving me back my jelly donuts.

That would have been traumatic enough by itself, and _then _the sheriff said something about Sam needing someone around to watch out for him.

"Yeah," I agreed, looking at where Sam was bent over his laptop, paying no attention to us. "Thanks." She turned startled eyes on me, and I shrugged. "For looking out for him. You know, when I was in _Untouchable_-land. I know he's a Sasquatch, but…"

I don't know what reaction I expected. Maybe a shrug, maybe for her to say Sam was a nice kid, maybe nothing. I definitely didn't expect her to give me a level look as though the mess we were in was somehow _my _fault.

"He's been through a lot, from everything I've heard," she said. "Needs someone to talk to."

"Yeah, but it must've been hard for you, after Bobby." (And that has to be one of the most retarded remarks I've ever made – sounds like something _Sam _would say. Don't know what got into me.)

"Sam lost Bobby too." Now she was looking at me even harder. "You do know that, don't you?"

And _that_ is how we ended up here.

(Shut up, Sam. I'm not _trying_ to prove anything to anyone. Especially not to Jodie Mills, stupid sheriff thinking she can tell me how to take care of _my _little brother.)

_Here _is the fourth thrift store we've visited in an hour. Every place we go, the owner takes one look at Sam and either tells us _very _politely that they don't have jackets in his size and maybe we could try Chuck's across the street, or makes a crack about how nobody's manufactured XXXXXL since the last giant was slain.

_Jerks._

Sam's starting to get a little disheartened and muttering about how he really didn't want a jacket anyway. Well, tough luck. He _needs _a jacket and he's going to _get_ a jacket.

(And _no_, Sam, it _isn't_ because Sheriff Mills walked up to you – on _my _watch, it's like she doesn't even get the _concept _of big brothers – and asked if you were cold and muttered about how you didn't have a jacket that was right for the weather. Shut the hell up.)

_Anyway_ – moving completely away from the subject of how the sheriff thought she could do my job better than I can – I've decided that Sam needs a new jacket. He hasn't got one warm enough and if he catches a cold I'm going to have to listen to him whining and sniffling for the next two hundred miles. You know what's more annoying than six and a half feet of complaining little brother? Freaking _nothing_.

I nudge Sam and point across the street.

Sam raises his eyebrows at the display in the store window. "I thought you hated places like that. And they're out of our budget, anyway."

"They'd be out of our budget if we were actually planning to _pay_." I pull my credit card out of my pocket and wave it at Sam. "And, yeah, their stuff is girly, but it'll suit you. Geek. Come on. Big brother's present."

"You mean _Mr. Smith's_ present."

"Smith, whatever," I say dismissively. "You know how long it took me to fill out the application form for the credit card?"

"No time at all, because I did it _for _you, jerk."

"And then I had to listen to you going _on _about it for _weeks_. Even had to listen to your stupid music to get you to shut up. I think that should count for a couple thousand dollars at _least_."

"I think putting up with _you _all the time should count for the Nobel Prize," Sam snarks.

But he doesn't argue as I lead the way across the street, which is what I was aiming for.

Sam follows me into the store, and it's so hard to believe he _isn't _the little runt I knew twenty-five years ago that I have to fight not to warn him to stay close and not to speak to any strangers.

A guy comes up to us as soon as we go in.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" he asks, nose wrinkling a bit as he looks me up and down. Evidently I'm not enhancing the tone of his fine establishment.

"Yeah," I say. "My brother needs a new jacket."

"Ah." He looks over my shoulder at Sam. "And what kind of jacket does your… _brother_… want?"

"Something that'll keep him warm," I say, just barely managing to keep the _duh, moron_ out of my voice. What kind of jacket does he _think _Sam wants in this weather?

"A jacket. To keep him warm." The guy sniffs. "What a novel idea. Your own?"

We leave.

After that incident, Sam flatly refuses to go anywhere else. We head back to the abandoned house and start packing. The twenty or so cartons that Jodie brought are going to have to go somewhere safe; after a lot of debate we settled on a storage locker in Sioux Falls. We can't cart them all around with us all the time, but it's dangerous to leave them lying in some motel room somewhere.

The Sheriff's taking them back with her, and Sam and I are moving on. The world's full of monsters that aren't going to gank themselves. And _they _don't care that Dick & Co are keeping us busy.

It's stupid, because this is a small town and _of course _they're not used to mini-mountains walking into stores demanding jackets in sizes they've probably not even heard of, but I still feel bad about it. I _wanted _to get Sam a jacket. After all he went through saving the world, and the price he's _still _paying for it, humanity can't even get over itself long enough to manufacture winter clothing for him?

I leave Sam and Jodie to their work, because thoughts like that are the reason bars were invented.

It isn't too long before I'm in one getting wasted.

And that's when I see _it_.

I hurry out of the bar, abandoning the little row of shots the bartender is lining up for me. I cross the street and walk through the open door, knowing as soon as I enter the room that this is the place. I barely manage to wait for the man in front of me in line to finish having his parcel wrapped so I can explain what I need.

Twenty minutes later I'm dragging a protesting Sam out the door.

"This isn't about the jacket again, is it?" Sam asks. "I'm _fine_, Dean. I don't need a jacket. Don't –"

"You need a jacket if I say you need a jacket," I growl. "I'm your big brother. I'm the one who's going to have to make a drugstore run in the middle of the night if you catch a cold."

"Dean, people don't catch cold because of not having a jacket –"

I ignore Sam, because, _really_, he thinks he can get around me on this one? Is he freaking _insane_?

"At least tell me where we're going!" Sam says, as I shove him into the car and slam the door on him. He rolls down the window and glares at me.

"Shut up and buckle your seatbelt."

When I pull up, Sam's eyes widen and he shakes his head. Like _that's _going to make a difference. When he starts bitchfacing, I open his door and haul him out of the car.

"Dean!" Sam whines. "This is ridiculous!"

"Shut up, Sam."

"Dean, _I'll _tell Jodie – no, I'll tell everyone we meet, seriously – that you take better care of me than anyone else ever could. You don't have to prove anything!"

"Shut up, Sam." I push open the door and go in. Sam follows, still complaining.

The woman at the counter smiles. "Dean. I was wondering whether you'd be back."

"I said I would be." I grin at her and shove Sam forward. "This is my little brother Sam. Sam, this is Alice Walker. She can help us. She specializes in –"

"I _know _what she specializes in, jerk! I _saw _the sign." Sam turns to the woman. "Hi, Alice. Look, I don't know what my brother told you, but I really don't need –"

"Don't worry, Sam." She pats his hand. "I already discussed it with your brother. I have just the thing."

"But –"

"Just follow me into the fitting room and I'll see if it needs to be adjusted anywhere –"

"But –"

"Come on, now." Alice drags my protesting brother inside.

I wait, looking around the store. There's an item in the display window that I _really_ think I should get Sam as a birthday surprise – maybe I'll write to Alice and have it sent to one of our postal boxes.

It isn't long before Alice is back with Sam in tow.

Sam glares at me. It's not even a bitchface; it's Super-Bitchface Number Five: _You are so screwed that it's going to be weeks and you'll have to let shotgun pick the music and the food AND the coffee before I'm even going to acknowledge your existence again._

I grin.

"Thanks, Alice. That's perfect. Let's go, Sammy. Daylight's wasting."

"I hate you."

Sam spends the drive back to the house telling me all about how he hates me. It's also the first thing he tells Sheriff Mills when he sees her.

The good sheriff looks him over with a half-smile.

"What is it?" she asked. "A prop from _Little House on the Prairie_?"

"Apparently," Sam snarls, looking like he's only an inch away from fratricide, "it's a coat she made for the nutcracker in _The Nutcracker_. They had an outdoor performance last February so this was meant to keep the actor warm while allowing plenty of freedom of movement."

Jodie turns to me.

"It's a warm coat," I say defensively.

"_It's a ballet dancer's coat_," Sam hisses. "I'm going to kill you."

"Awww, c'mon, Sammy. You know you like it."

"It's ridiculous."

I let my face fall. "You don't like my present?"

"_Dean_," Sam warns.

"You don't like my present. I'm sorry, kiddo. I just thought… I know I haven't always been able to give you everything you wanted, but –"

"Dean!" Sam snaps. "Shut up."

"Only if you wear the coat."

"I hate you."

"I know."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	14. Keep Fighting

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Author's Note:** So… I had this written and ready to go. The next tag might not be up quite this quickly, but I'll try to make it soon.

Who else thought the last episode was one of JP's best performances ever? :-)

Thanks to the people who reviewed the last chapter: cold kagome, kellywinchester, doyleshuny, nupinoop296, Kirabaros, godsdaughter77, SandyDee84, twomom, Phoenix80hp, criminally charmed, Branch Super, agent iz hyper, SPN Mum, Eavis, giacinta, putmoneyinthypurse and Scribble2Much.

As always, thanks to Cheryl for the help.

**Summary:** Tag to 7.13, _Slice Girls_. Sometimes the job is just too much.

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><p><strong>Keep Fighting<strong>

I'm used to waking up in the middle of the night to find that Sam's not sleeping. The only times he actually sleeps at night like normal people are when he's injured, sick, or his dark circles have gotten so bad that people are asking if he's in an abusive relationship. (Seriously, random do-gooders in diners, have you actually _seen_ Sam? The only person who could possibly beat him in a face-to-face fight is me, and if you're suggesting that _I'm _hurting Sammy…)

The only other way to get Sam to sleep is for me to put him to bed practically at gunpoint. It's so routine now that when I wake up and find that he _is _sleeping, I go straight to the nearest twenty-four-hour pharmacy for some heavy-duty antipyretics.

Normally this doesn't worry me too much, because he sleeps while we're on the road. All it means is that he's a little sleep-deprived on hunts, but Sammy's a big boy. He can live a couple of days without sleeping.

Tonight?

I know something's wrong as soon as I wake up.

Sam's not missing. I can see him sitting on the floor by the window. He's got a book, although I think it's just a comfort thing because I'm pretty sure he can't read in the dark. (Unless he actually _is _Geekboy, in which case that would be his superpower.)

I can't see his face – it's too dark – but the air is thick with angst. It hasn't been this bad since he was a teenager.

Even worse, the air is thick with the smell of cheap brandy.

I get out of bed. Sam looks at me.

Good, so we're not pretending that I don't know he's awake.

I pad over to Sam and drop to the ground next to him. He nods in acknowledgement of my presence. Then he disentangles one hand from the book to grab the bottle that's on the floor on his other side and offer it to me.

It's unusual to have Sam actually _offering_ me alcohol, since his default state these days seems to be one where he makes half a bitchface, like he can't decide whether to yell at me or not, and then bookmarks websites about liver disease on my laptop. For a moment I'm tempted to take it, because who knows when _this _will happen again, but I resist because one of us needs to be sober, and if Sam's breath is any indication then it isn't going to be him.

"Dude, what the hell?" I say, keeping my tone light but chiding. "Isn't this supposed to be _me_?"

"What?" Sam slurs.

"The cognac. And it's not even _your _kind of cognac. This is the cheap stuff, isn't it?"

Sam laughs. "Couldn't afford Courvoisier. Haven't been shooting much pool lately, have we?"

"No, but that doesn't mean you give yourself alcohol poisoning – or something worse." I take the bottle. "Seriously, Sam, what the hell? I could smell you all the way across the room."

Sam shakes his head. "You can't talk."

"I'm your older brother, so _yeah _I can. Dude, drinking problems away? That's not usually your way of dealing with things."

Sam shakes his head. "Not true. I mixed whiskey and Jäger that time at Pierpont… You remember? With that creepy old guy who thought we were gay." Sam laughs suddenly. "All your fault. You were overcompensating because you're short."

"I'm not short, Sam. I'm a normal human being. You're a giraffe."

"You're short," Sam insists.

Then he sighs and reaches for the bottle of cognac. I hold it out of his reach, grabbing his wrist and holding it still.

"Don't be stupid, Sam. You really are going to give yourself alcohol poisoning, if you haven't already."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, and then he's looking at me with those _eyes_. "I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't – I don't – I'm _sorry_."

I'm not quite sure what to say to that, because it sounds like a bit of an overreaction to a warning about drinking too much. But I'm pretty sure Sam'll tell me if I can figure out the right questions to ask.

Sam moves, a little hesitantly, like he wants to get closer to me but he's afraid of being pushed away.

I sigh – inwardly – and hold out my arm. "OK, kiddo. Come here. Free pass for the rest of the night if you promise to tell me what you're angsting about." Before I can blink, Sam's snuggled up to my chest. I lower my arm, wrapping it around him, and say, "Fine. Girly enough for you? Now _talk_."

"I'm sorry," Sam says again.

"Yeah, I got that, Sam. _Why _are you sorry?"

"I'm not enough for you. And _she _might've been but I had to kill her."

Yeah, that's my boy. I ask what's bothering him, thinking we can deal with the issues one at a time, and he hits me with about six of them at once. I pick the first one based on what I think Sam's likely to be agonizing about the most.

"This about Emma?" I ask.

There's another apology. Fortunately this one's a little muffled because Sam's decided that he's going to talk to my shirt instead of to me. If I'd heard it out loud I might just have killed him. And killing a kid who's nestled up to me like a trustful puppy is low, even for me.

"Sam." I rub his head. "I know you had to do it. She was one of them and she was going to kill me."

"I didn't hesitate. It wasn't even _difficult_, not once I realized she wanted to hurt you."

"So?"

"She was my niece. I'm a horrible person."

I rub Sam's head some more, thinking about that one. Not the part about him being a horrible person – he's _Sammy_, it's ridiculous even to suggest it – but about Emma. My daughter Emma. She was a monster, and I don't blame Sam for killing her. I… couldn't. But it had to be done, and I know that and Sam knows that.

"You know if you really had kids I would give myself back to Lucifer before I hurt them," Sam whispers to my top button.

"Yeah, Sammy," I murmur, and if my voice is a little thick there's nobody to hear it but me and Sam. "I know. I know you had to do it. She was the kind of niece who would've eaten you at the annual Thanksgiving dinner."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"If we'd had normal lives – you know, _normal _normal, not hunting normal – do you think we would have had an annual Thanksgiving dinner?"

"No way, dude. You would've been having Thanksgiving dinner with Jess's family, and I would've been having it with… I don't know who. Maybe Michelle Orman." I nudge Sam. "You remember Michelle Orman? She was in my chemistry lab in Little Rock."

"_Dude,_" Sam protests. "You were twelve."

"And a red-blooded Winchester man." Sam shifts, and I raise my arm to let him draw back and sit up so he can face me. "Know why we wouldn't have had Thanksgiving dinner together?"

"Why?"

"Because we would've got houses side-by-side in one of those pretty suburban neighbourhoods, and we would be having dinner together almost everyday anyway."

Sam laughs. "There's no _way _you believe that."

"No, you're right. What probably would've happened is that you would've married Jess and had a house full of kids, and I would've been Uncle Dean and lived with you because your kids would've needed a positive male role model –"

"_Hey!_" Sam protests. I silence him by punching him in the arm.

"And we would've had Thanksgiving dinner together but that would've been perfectly normal and we would just have called it dinner."

Sam sighs. "I'm sorry I had to kill her."

"So am I, kiddo. Sometimes the job sucks." Sam nods, still sad but no longer desperate. Right. So that's Problem Number One dealt with. "Now what the hell was that about you not being enough for me?"

"For you to keep going and not get killed." Sam's voice is _tiny _now, and he's in my arms again. "But maybe we could get the Impala…"

"Sam, what the _hell_?"

"I'm not enough of a reason for you to keep fighting," Sam says. I don't reply, because I can't get my mind past _what the hell is the moron thinking _and _who the hell else is supposed to be a reason for me to keep fighting_. Sam burrows closer to me and goes on. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm trying – I _really _am – but I _can't_ –"

"Can't?" I hold Sam close and tight, tuning out the world so that all he's aware of his himself and his big brother. "Can't what, Sammy?"

"Can't be the _same_," comes the agonized whisper. "He's in my head, Dean. I've tried, and I can keep track of things, usually, but he's always going to be in my head."

"I know that, moron," I tell him. "You spent a _very _long time being Lucifer's chew-toy. That doesn't go away overnight."

"But you deserve…"

Sam trails off, and I feel a spike of hot anger. "I deserve what, Sam?" I demand, shoving him off me and shaking him. "I deserve _better_, is that what you're trying to say? I deserve a _normal_ brother? One who _isn't _seeing Satan every minute of the day?" Sam flinches and ducks his head. "I deserve not to have to worry about when you're going to go batshit on me? I deserve for my little brother to have survived two hundred years of torture without any side-effects, so I don't have to waste time helping him cope? Is _that _what you think I deserve?"

"Dean –"

"Because if you do, you're a _moron_, Sam." Sam stares at me: he wasn't expecting _that_. Idiot. "You're my brother. No matter _how _screwed-up you are in the head, _you're my brother_. You know how I know that? Because you shot Emma, not knowing how I was going to react, not knowing if I was going to turn on you for it, you did it to save me. And this crazy, messed-up thing between us is the only reason I've _ever _kept going. Sure, I might get a little cranky sometimes, but…" I gesture vaguely at him. "You didn't _see _me when you were gone."

And that's the problem. That's always been the problem. If we'd had a normal sibling relationship, like brothers who send each other Christmas cards and coo over each other's kids and then go for each other's throats when it's time for the will to be read, we would've known how to handle this. But, no, we're us, and even Sam, for all his claims to the contrary, feels too strongly and too fiercely and too _much _for normal to be anywhere in the picture.

Sam settles back down against me, and I can tell he's thinking the same thing.

"What are we going to do?" he asks.

"We're going to fight." I curl my arms around him. "Know why?" Sam shakes his head. "Because you, little brother, have an awesome track record of not giving up, and I am _not _going to let you break it."

Sam smiles, and I let my hand rest on his back, and maybe, _maybe_, this'll be enough. We've lost all our friends, we're relying on a paranoid geek for intel, we're up against an enemy nobody's ever fought before, and to make things worse we just had to hightail it from town to escape being arrested for the murder of my… daughter.

But we're _us_, and as long as we're _us _there's always going to be a reason to keep fighting.

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	15. Good Clown, Bad Clown

**Disclaimer:** The boys aren't mine.

**Summary: **Tag to _Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie._ Dean's feeling guilty, and finds a way to make it up to Sam.

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><p><strong>Good Clown, Bad Clown<strong>

I'm awake.

This is stupid.

Sam's the insomniac. _Sam's _the one who likes to do push-ups in the middle of the night. (No, seriously. A week ago I woke up around three in the morning needing to use the bathroom and _there _was Supergeek working out in the dark. In the _dark_!)

But today, _he's_ fast asleep. (Again, seriously. I would know if he were faking.) He's fast asleep and _I'm_ wide awake with my head full of horror shows.

It's no mystery, of course. I know why I can't sleep.

I abandoned Sam. It was years ago, and I was a kid, and it wasn't like I left him on the curb in a seedy neighbourhood where he could be kidnapped by child traffickers. But still. I _abandoned_ Sam while I went to hit on girls, and even though it was in a place that was _supposed_ to be safe, I wound up giving him clown phobia and it got him hurt more than twenty years later.

And, just to be clear on this, it wasn't grown-up, house-sized Sam, Sam with the upper-body strength of a bulldozer, that I abandoned. (Because _that_ doesn't count as abandonment. That counts as doing the normal-people thing often enough to make sure Sam and I don't kill each other.)

No, I abandoned my little brother, back when it _wasn't_ ironic to say that, and it got him hurt.

Sam got hurt because I didn't do my job.

See, but that's not everything. It sucks, but that's just guilt, and I can deal with guilt. Repress, wash down, repress, wash down, I'm an _expert_ at that.

What I can't deal with is fear.

And right now? Fear is pretty much all I'm feeling. Fear so strong it outweighs the guilt, because things that happened years ago – _decades _ago – are not supposed to come back to bite us in the ass. And things _I _did aren't supposed to come back to bite _Sam _in the ass.

And if the clown thing came back to haunt us, then who knows what else is lurking? The roulette-playing spirit from Reno? The Tampa waitress? That – _oh please no _– that dude I screwed over at pool the first time Dad took me hustling?

If I had to pick, I'd go for the pool dude. I don't hustle pool much these days – when it needs to be done, I let Sam do it; never tell him I said this but he's actually brilliant at pool – but I _used _to do it regularly. And in all my years of parting bar-goers from their cash (hey, not _my _fault if the guy wants to bet his hard-earned money on a game with a random stranger), I've never met anyone as intimidating as that first pool dude.

He'd looked me over, head to toe, frowned, and said, "I'll remember _you_."

Dad had taken us straight back to the motel, woken Sam, packed, and we'd been on the road by dawn.

OK, fine, maybe it's stupid to think that the pool guy will remember me now, or recognize me even if he does. And even if he does, he definitely won't recognize Sam, who's as different from the scrawny little kid he used to be as… well, as twelve-foot walls of muscle _are _from scrawny kids.

And _even _if he recognizes me and recognizes Sam and still begrudges the twenty dollars I took him for, he'd have to be stupid to go up against us.

Still.

If it's not him, there'll be something.

Someone.

Someone who's going to hurt Sam because of me.

Just like the clowns who already beat Sam up because of me. And I may have laughed at him when I saw him covered with glitter, but believe me I stopped laughing _very _quickly when we got back to the motel and I saw how badly his chest was bruised.

That could so easily have been a cracked rib and a punctured lung and a trip to the hospital and the heart monitor flatlining and –

_Sam's OK._

I have to reassure myself of that, so I get up, sidle over to the next bed, and sit on the edge. Sam stirs, mumbles something unintelligible, and rolls over to face me. He doesn't wake up, though, and I'm grateful for that. The kid needs all the sleep he can get.

I brush the stupid floppy hair off his face. He looks so young. Younger than twenty-nine, younger than however many years he spent in the Cage.

And although it makes me feel like the worst human being in the world, I'm a little grateful for the clown phobia. Not for it almost getting him killed (that isn't, and never will be, OK) but because it feels like recovery – it feels like _hope_ – that Sam could be subjected to a couple of lifetimes' worth (more, if you factor in a hunter's average life expectancy) of the worst tortures Lucifer and Michael could dream up and still be scared of something like clowns.

_That's my boy._

And then there's the giant slinky sitting in my duffel.

I don't know how Sam knew I had my eye on it – he was off trying to play bad cop while I was trying to 'earn' it – but he did, somehow, the way Sam seems to know everything about me.

I don't think I can overstate how good it is to have my baby brother back.

A sudden chill creeps into my blood as I remember that year – _that year _ – and the six months after it. I never slept without nightmares, not _once_, and the ones where I saw Sam jumping and the hole closing over him were the _good _ones. In the _bad_ ones I was back in Hell, torturing people on the rack, spending hours – days – on one stubborn soul that refused to break no matter what I did to it – and then hazel eyes would look up into mine with hurt and fear and betrayal and –

And I have to do _something_ to make myself feel less guilty about this.

I have a sudden idea. I grab Sam's laptop and settle down at the table.

It's several minutes later that I realize that Sam's awake, staring at me in the darkness.

"Go back to sleep," I tell him. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh." Sam sounds disbelieving. "That's why you're sitting here in the middle of the night, angsting so loudly I could hear you in my sleep." He shakes his head. "I'm fine, Dean. No permanent damage."

"How is it _clowns_?" I say. And then I wonder how _that _happened, because that wasn't the question I meant to put to him right now.

"Dude, what?" Sam asks, sitting up.

Well, now that I've asked it… "Your greatest fear. After everything, how is it _clowns_?"

"You thought it would be Lucifer?"

"Well… Pretty much, yeah."

Because after forty years in a Hell that's significantly _less _miserable than the Cage, I know a thing or two.

Sam shrugs. "I stopped being scared of him pretty quickly. I knew what he could do to me. It wasn't fun, and it was a lot worse than I imagined it would be when I jumped, but… You know."

"No, I don't know."

Sam sighs, that put-upon sigh that he uses in lieu of _Big brothers are stupid_. "I wasn't as scared of him as I could've been because the fact that he and Michael could do that to me meant I was in the Cage and they were in the Cage and my plan had worked and you were OK. It was horrible, Dean, but it meant you were safe and you hadn't been forced into being Michael's vessel, so I wasn't that afraid of it."

_Yup, rip my heart out. That's my boy._

"And clowns are scarier than Lucifer and Michael?" Sam looks away, and I press harder. "Sammy?"

"There were always clowns at Plucky's," Sam says in a tiny voice. "And whenever we went to Plucky's it meant you were going to leave me there and… you know…"

_And now that you've done that, you can just tie it into knots._

"Sam, I'm sorry –"

"I know," Sam says quickly. "I know, and it was years ago. You don't have to apologize. I just… You asked why clowns freak me out."

"You know I'm not going anywhere, right?" Sam nods, and I add, "Except to Vegas. Come take a look at this." Sam looks disinclined to get out of bed, so I take the laptop to him. "We missed Vegas week thanks to Becky – we should do something fun to make up for it."

Sam's staring at the screen like he doesn't believe his eyes. "You want to go to a Broadway show?"

"That's the kind of pansy thing you like, isn't it?" Now Sam's transferred the incredulous stare to me. I shrug uncomfortably. "I promise I won't abandon you at Plucky's."

"Wait…" Sam's eyes narrow at the screen. "_Commedia dell'arte?_ _Really_, Dean? The stupid clown toy and having to go back to _Plucky's _and then getting beaten up by clowns wasn't bad enough? Now you want me to go to a Harlequinade with you?"

He sounds hurt, and I hurry to explain.

"Not – look, I get it, Sam. You're not over it yet. But I don't think getting beaten up by clowns is going to end any phobias here."

"And having to _watch_ them for two hours _is_?"

"I'm going with you." I tilt the screen further towards him. "I booked _two _tickets, see? I'm going with you. We'll get dinner at one of those fancy places where the portions are just about big enough to fill a tablespoon, and then we'll see the play, and then we'll come back to our motel room and get drunk off our asses and I'll let you tell me about the classical influences of Italian theatre or whatever the hell it is." Sam still looks like he doesn't get it – freaking _moron_ – so I explain. "We replace the bad memories involving clowns with a good memory involving clowns. Big brother abandoning you so he can hit on girls with big brother making sure you have a good time."

"Oh."

"What do you think?"

Sam smiles at me. Shyly, the freaking _girl_.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, let's do that."

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